


To Lose A Maidenhead

by WriterChick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: CONSENTING - Freeform, Corruption, Creepyshipping, F/M, Fuck I forgot to add UNDERAGE, Innocence Lost at the end of his fingertips, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Naive Girl, She's 14 which is canon-speak for adult -- if you can't fly with that run now, Sneaky Pete, Total Lech, and he doesn't call her after, don't get your hopes up for love everlasting, i lost a bet and had to write this, if you think he's not a creep keep scrolling and avoid this piece, no honor, only sneaky greedy lusty aching, they don't fall in love, true friend my ass, unless you get off on getting let down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-07 20:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterChick/pseuds/WriterChick
Summary: Petyr has 5 days with Sansa to convince her to give him her maidenhead.  He's a total creep in this, don't read if you're looking for romance.  It isn't here.  Just straight up creepyshipping.





	1. House of Ill Repute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreedIsGreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/gifts).



> I lost a bet. My friends and I make each other write things we are not into, as a means of expanding our writing skills. The punishment-prompt given was that Sansa had to walk in on Petyr with Olyvar, and he had to convince her to give him her virginity... My friend also knows how I hate loss of virginity pieces... she's a total bish in the best way. That being said, I can't write anything that isn't at least remotely plausible to me. So I had to make it so, and this awful little lost bet piece is becoming multiple chapters. I can't tell how frequently I will update this, simply because The Baelishes is always my first priority. But I am a good sport, and I will see this through to the end. Fingers crossed she loses the next bet, boy don't I have a whopper of a challenge for her in mind. ;-)

 

He could do without the sound of suction, the sloppy smacks of the saliva seal breaking.  He didn’t mind it that much with women, as there was the element of attraction there.  The sound, however vulgar, was usually coupled with beautiful imagery between his legs.  A mane of hair, (the color and cut never made a difference) would bob up and down, both accepting and rejecting his stiff offering.  When he peered over the motion of their mouth’s work, he would most definitely see a deliciously round rump perched on heels.  

It was a wonderful sight that warranted the crass realities of their activities.  Unfortunately, though women were more desirable, the men were usually more skilled.  They almost always offered a profound finish that was often quicker too.  Especially Olyvar.  He was an attractive man, with smooth skin and lean muscle definition.  Petyr knew that if the man’s face were not otherwise engaged, he’d look upon bright blue eyes and full pouty lips.  Olyvar’s appeal was versatile to both women and men that could be swayed, making him a great asset.

While his looks were wasted on Petyr, Olyvar’s appeal was found in his talent, a talent that was being put to use as Petyr gripped either arm of his chair and shut his eyes to what was in front of him.  He had at times, requested one of his girls to come in and offer a more attractive view, while Olyvar worked for Petyr.  Though he found he did not need the use of such material today.  He had been at court and seen the eldest Stark daughter, Sansa.  It was to his pleasure that he had been seeing more and more of her as of late.  

It was helpful that she had started to warm to him, welcoming him easily when he approached.  She had told him that she would feel bad if anything had happened to him.  Her face was the picture of innocence and altruism as she smiled at him.  And damn if he didn’t allow his expression to mirror hers.  He felt many years younger as dimples impressed his face.  

The youthful feelings she evoked in him were exciting, and he found renewed energy when she was around.  And Petyr did not find it very difficult to be around her, as she captured many a man’s eye.  Her beauty was only enhanced by her kind heart, despite what she had been subjected to.  She had a lot to learn, though demonstrated that she could.  It was when he heard her retort back to him that she was a terrible liar and meant to use that to her advantage, that he recognized the possibility in her. 

Petyr returned to his chambers, feeling the tell tale twitches and tingles of arousal that Lady Sansa brought about in him.  He smiled, knowing that many men around her suffered these side effects of her company, though he was not most men.  He did not have to suffer, not when he had an entire establishment centered around offering various forms of _ relief _ .  

Petyr felt Olyvar’s tongue cradling the underbelly of his erection and his shoulders relaxed, melting into the massage.  Behind closed eyes, Petyr stared at Sansa Stark’s doe-eyed expression as he told her that he was her true friend.  When he ventured to kiss her hand, the contact of his lips to her skin had sent the blood flowing into his lap, then and now.  He heard another wet suck and knew that Olyvar was working hard to treat Petyr’s current ailment. 

Suffering the intoxicating effects of such a cure, Petyr slowly forced his eyes open against the sudden heft to his lids.  Or, at least he thought he had opened them, though that couldn’t be right.  The same wide-eyed look from the same redheaded northerner he’d just been picturing as Olyvar milked him to satisfaction, stared back at him.  Had he not truly opened his eyes?  He blinked for clarity, only to find the same sight before him.  

Realization quaked through him, setting every nerve ending on fire, as his hand jutted down to Olyvar’s shoulder, keeping him in place and still.  Sansa Stark was there!  Her corporeal form stood mute and rigid in front of him, as if a mouse caught in a cat’s paw.  No sooner had Petyr recognized the young woman in front of him, than his mind jumped to the next most important thought: What had she seen?  

“I apologize, Lord Baelish.  Please.  Please, excuse me.”  Her inflection was timid and her face pale with embarrassment as she turned to scurry away.  

“Sansa!”  His voice raised to stop her.  It worked.  She was just at the door when she paused, propriety preventing her from freedom.  With her back still turned, Petyr pushed Olyvar back, gesturing for him to stand.  Petyr crammed himself back in his pants as he rose from his seat, adjusting his tunic to cover his laces, left undone.  He controlled his voice, keeping the anxiety out of it as he spoke to the back of her head, “Never apologize for the pleasure of your presence, however unexpected.”  

She turned, her pallor a lifeless white, and offered a polite smile, “Thank you.  You are very kind.”  Her eyes darted over to Olyvar now standing behind Petyr’s desk, holding some parchment as if he had not only just been on his knees the moment before.

Petyr nodded to Olyvar, dismissing him.  Sansa looked down at her hands, avoiding Petyr’s scrutinizing gaze as he continued their conversation, “It is not a difficult task to return the kindness you bestow in droves.”  

One cheek dimpled, indicating a shy smile she was trying to hide.  Petyr was sure that she would not be amused at all if she were aware of what she had walked in on.  Upon consideration, however, it was doubtful that she would know, as Olyvar had been crouched behind Petyr’s desk when he was set on his work.  Petyr was certain of it.  Or, at least, he hoped.  

At the silence, she glanced up, meeting his eye for a fraction of a second.  Petyr took the opportunity to lead, “Sansa, if I may?  This is not a place for a lady to visit, let alone one as reputable as you.”  A rosey red colored her cheeks and her eyes darted in every direction but Petyr’s.  He leaned in, knowing the movement would force her attention on him as he lowered his voice, “But, I believe you may already know that.”  

She visibly squirmed, gripping handfuls of dress in her palms.  Clearing her throat, she responded weakly, “Yes.  I confess, I’ve been made aware of this establishment, and wha-”  She lost her courage for a moment, her voice leaving her before she tried again, “what it is meant for.”  

The naive and chaste daughter of the North not only knew that this was a place of wanton debauchery, but actually mustered the bravery to say so.  Petyr employed many girls who specialized in provocative speech, providing customers with an erotic pleasure that they would not find in their marriage beds.  Though, not even the lewdest comment, from his most skilled whore, could possibly affect him the way Sansa Stark was currently.  His arousal strained painfully against his breeches at the nervous tremor in her voice, as she reluctantly acknowledged that sex occurred here, regularly.  

He cocked his head to the side, offering a curious smile and a theatrically furrowed brow as he asked, “Why risk entering such a place?  If you desired to meet privately with me--”  

“No!”  She shook her head rapidly, and too much so for Petyr’s liking.  Why should she so vehemently deny a wish to speak to him?  He may not have been worthy of her mother in his youth, but circumstances were different now.  Reputations had been built, as well as coffers.  She must have read his face to note the slight as she smiled apologetically and quickly elaborated,  “While I adore our friendly meetings, I came here for another purpose.”   

Petyr found himself oddly fixated on the word: adore.  She  _ adored _ their meetings.  It was likely that she was simply using flattery to soften the impact of the offense.  Though, the possibility of honesty in her words, kept him in rapt attention.  He lifted an upturned palm in an open gesture as he asked, “Other purpose?”  

She grasped the material of her skirts as she stood, deciding whether or not to tell him or invent a story.  What would she have to hide?  What would bring her to a brothel?  Petyr’s curiosity piqued, as he watched her bottom lip move to speak, only to stop itself.  Cognizant of her need for coaxing, he reached for her hand.  It was so light and delicate in his, allowing itself be raised to Petyr’s lips for a gentle kiss.  He offered her a reassuring smile as his other palm joined in his hold of her, and his thumbs began working small circles into the back of her hand.  His voice softened as he insisted, “There is no need for modesty with me.  Our friendship is stronger than any embarrassment.”  

“Lord--Petyr, I came to seek the services of a lady by the name of Ros.”  Though she was a Tully fish out of her river, she held her chin up high when she answered him.  

Ros had turned traitor, and was executed for her disloyalty.  Sansa would have no knowledge of this, as any whore killed personally by the inbred king-brat would be cleaned up along with the soiled bed linens.  Not only did Sansa want this dead defector, but she wanted to “seek services” from her.  He felt his manhood tingle as he pictured the two women moaning under each other’s touch.  It was doubtful that she wanted to use Ros the way Petyr fantasized she might, so he pushed the thought from his mind.  He was intrigued by what use Sansa Stark might have for Ros, of all the people in Westeros.  He fixed a frown on his face and spoke in a remorseful voice as he continued to brush his thumbs against the soft skin of her hand, “Grievously, Ros is no longer with us.  A fever took her.”  

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. You have my condolences.”  Sansa stared back into his eyes, either not noticing or not caring how he retained hold her hand in his.  

“It is greatly appreciated.”  Petyr smiled back at her, and then leaned in a little, “Is there anything that I may do for you?”  

Again, he watched her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink, as she shook her head.  “No.  I required Ros, particularly.”  

“May I inquire why?”  Petyr felt for more details, “Perhaps someone else here specializes in what you are looking for.”  

Sansa looked around the room, another wave of mortification rolled over her as she shook her head, denying the use of a different whore.  “You must be aware that I am to marry the imp?”

Petyr offered her a sorrowful look, “It is regrettable, yes.”  It was unfortunate that such a beauty would be deflowered by the little Lannister.  Looking at her, coming into full bloom, Petyr lamented that anyone other than himself would be sucking the juices from such ripe fruit.  Tyrion had a conscience, and could be manipulated by it.  Perhaps Petyr could comment on her inexperience and timid nature to build a sense of guilt and obligation in him.  And perhaps that would be enough to keep him from her bed.  For a time, anyway.  Petyr focused his attention back to Sansa, “I do not mean to be presumptuous, but many ladies are nervous about the  _ bedding.” _

She gulped at his emphasized word.  The weight of it hung from her neck like an slave chain, as she lowered her head.  To his delighted surprise, she offered a slight nod of her head.  Regardless that this was an obvious fear, it was still a very personal one, and she was sharing it with him.  She was  _ confiding _ in him.  Oh, true friend indeed.  A wicked feeling slithered through him and made him still the shiver of anticipation in his body.  Mere flesh, blood, and bone, was not enough to contain the excitement that flowed within at this new development. 

He continued to hold her hand, though freed one of his to clasp her shoulder.  It was a bold move that bordered on improper.  Fortunately, she was disoriented enough by the setting and circumstances, that she allowed the gesture, only widening her eyes slightly at him.  Petyr’s voice softened as he offered an empty comfort, “I have heard that he is very knowledgeable in this area, if you are concerned the experience will not be to your liking.” 

“My  _ liking _ ?” The disgusted look on her face confirmed for Petyr that she truly was an innocent, still under the belief that sex was not something for ladies to enjoy.  Oh, Sweetling.

Petyr kept his hands in place and took a step forward, drawing closer to her as he began to ask, “If your apprehension is not your  _ pleasure _ \--”

“Lord Bae--Petyr.”  She stopped him quickly, riled by his choice of word.  She inhaled for strength and raised her chin.  She had come this far, and intimated a considerable amount already.  Petyr hoped she would see things through to the end.  “For a brief time, there were some plans for me to marry Loras Tyrell.”  

Indeed, there  _ were. _  Olyvar had used his special talents, exploiting the Tyrell’s inclinations, to learn the Queen of Thorns’ scheme.  Petyr had naturally put a stop to it.  At the time he told himself that it was because he didn’t want his greatest game piece married off to Highgarden, rendered useless.  He stared into the ocean of her eyes, his periphery allowing him the opportunity to admire the way her chest grew with each breath.  Now, Petyr knew that he also denied her the Knight of the Flowers because he couldn’t have her.  If Petyr couldn’t bury himself in her young supple body, then she would not wrap herself around someone she desired either.  That was if the limp-wrist could even rise to the occasion when necessary, which Petyr greatly doubted.  

Petyr feigned surprise at her words, and allowed her to continue.  She tilted her head, a look of defeat shadowed her eyes.  It was as if she had forgotten with who she was speaking, or perhaps she was truly beginning to believe in their friendship.  Sansa actually admitted, “I was not as timid about the wedding night when I believed him to be my groom.”  She let a small smile play across her lips at the idea.  Petyr worked to keep the sneer from his practiced look of support.  It was her that leaned further in this time, as she shared a secret with him, “I have heard that if the man is pleasing to look upon, the pain is greatly diminished for the lady.”  

Oh, sweetling.  The sudden ache of a profound need to plunge himself so completely inside her, brought all focus on his desire to deflower her.  He would rip the wrapping of her gown off of her, and rub her soft and creamy body all over himself, feeling her taut nipples push against the scar her mother marred him with.  He would lift her long legs and drive his throbbing cock into her tight little gash, so fresh and new, ripping past her maidenhead.  He imagined his seed drizzling out of her thoroughly used and sore cunt, dripping down onto her little rosebud, as he used her small clothes to clean the tinge of blood from his manhood.  His eyes fluttered and he took a breath to regain his composure.  She could not see this side of him, this truly primeval side, poised to fuck her whether she willed it or not.  

Petyr reminded himself that while that was his base desire, he had evolved past that animalistic urge.  He was not some brain dead soldier, raping and pillaging during war time.  He would not  _ rut _ this delicate northern rose, with blue eyes to match.  He would get his needs met, however basic, though his method need not be.  Petyr would do what he did best, he would convince her that their needs were one in the same.  It would be more satisfying when she not only willed it, but begged him for it.  

The debasement involved was tantalizing to be sure, and would require some work, just the sort he prided himself in.  He was about to respond when she dared to continue, “Now that I am promised to the  _ imp _ …”  

Completely understanding her concern now, Petyr allowed the dawning of realization to show on his face as he offered her a sad smile and looked down at the delicate hand he held in his.  Her slender fingers were bare of any jewelry and for the briefest of moments he considered having a ring fashioned for them.  It would not be difficult to convince her it was merely a friendly token of appreciation from his house name to hers.  What else could it be?  Certainly, not a symbol of possession--a mark for his target.  His voice was knowing, “You fear that the pain will be great, considering the less than appealing appearance of your betrothed.”  

She lowered her head, and nodded.  Petyr watched a tear fall from her eyelashes and he took the opportunity to slide the hand on her arm across her back, skimming over her shoulder blades.  He pulled her closer to him, as he rested the roving palm to grip her other shoulder.  He leaned into her ear as he walked her toward the door, “Oh, you poor sweetling.”  

Too distraught, she did not balk at his term of endearment, nor did she look up as she apologized, “Forgive me, I find myself losing composure whenever I must think on this matter.”  

“It is lucky that they have not seen you this way at court.”  He offered her gentle chiding, as he continued to walk her.  He did not want her to leave, but the pressure building in his breeches at the sight of such a pure creature trusting in him, of all people, was becoming too much to tolerate.  

She stopped and lifted her head, turning quickly, her face inches from his as she breathed, “I have only been able to keep my mask in place at the promise of help from Ros.”  Her eyes closed and another tear streamed down, “But now that she is gone…”  

Ros?  Why, Ros?  What had that sniveling spy for a spider promised her?  How had she even known of her existence?  Petyr let go of her hand and brought his finger beneath her chin, lifting it to meet his eye.  His voice was calm as he inquired, “Perhaps, if you could tell me the purpose of your visit with Ros, I could be of some service.”  What did Lady Stark want with a whore?

She stared back at him for a moment, searching out a foothold for trust.  He let go of her chin, letting his hand brush over some of her auburn locks as he moved to grip her arm and insist, “It’s alright.  Your secret is safe with me.”  He quickly pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her cheeks before he handed it to her to keep.  “As safe as the Iron Bank.”  

A small half-hearted smile flashed at him for a moment before her apprehension returned, her hands twisting at the fabric he gave her.  “There is word, amongst ladies, that Ros provided a service to maidens.  To prepare them, for the  _ first time _ .”  

So industrious of her.  The woman had such potential, if she had just remained loyal.  Petyr licked his lips as he asked, “And are you aware of what the preparation entailed?”  

Sansa nervously shook her head.  

Excellent.  He brought her another step forward as he began to spin his lies, “I know of this special preparation.  It is a process, to be sure.  One that requires seven visits over seven days.”  Seven days of Sansa Stark.  He felt the early seed dampen the material of his clothes, at the idea he would have her to himself at least seven times.  

Sansa took another step towards the door at his encouragement, and lamented, “No!  The wedding is to be in five.”  

Fuck.  Fine.  Only five times.  Petyr understood the importance of flexibility.  He shrugged, “There is an abridged version, but I must warn you.”  He halted their progress to ensure she was listening intently.  

Her eyes widened, “Yes?” 

“Due to the speed at which the process will have to be conducted, you may be asked to assist in ways you may not think proper.”  He worked to keep his face serious as he held back the snicker he felt threatening to slip out.  

She smiled sheepishly back at him, “The situation is improper in and of itself.”  

Oh, if she only knew how imprudent it would become, how things would escalate.  Petyr lowered his head and smiled privately at how little she knew and how much she would learn.  He almost felt light-headed as he pictured her  _ assisting _ him, milking his prick with her prim and proper lips.  His leg almost shook as he forced it forward a step, dragging her with him.  He let his thumb rub her shoulder as he spoke, “All is not lost, Sansa.  Ros was not the only one in my employ, capable of offering such a service.  I can provide you with  _ someone _ .”  

“Truly?”  The hope that softened her eyes, only hardened his cock.

Though his heart beat rapidly with his need to release such build up, he kept calm as he reassured her, “I am always true with you,  _ Sansa _ .”  

She smiled back at him, not understanding the weight of the lie he told her, “Thank you, Petyr.”  

She  _ thanked _ him.  The thrill of it crept and crawled beneath his skin as he imagined just how many different ways he’d get the Stark girl to show him her gratitude in five days time.  He let go of her, after a quick squeeze to serve as an innocent gesture of comfort among friends.  He inhaled slowly as he considered what an embrace would be like, full on, as opposed to the side as this one was.  Small steps are still steps.  Petyr knew he would have it all soon enough.  She was already opening to him so perfectly, a gentle push would only speed things along.  

Petyr let go and held the door open for her as he said, “It is dangerous for your reputation to be seen here.  Do not risk yourself in this endeavor, anymore.  Preparations can be made in your chamber each day.”  

Sansa nodded her understanding.  Her smile was infectious, causing his to mirror hers just as it had before, on the day he declared true friendship.  He reached for her hand again, and continued his instruction, “You will have a headache tomorrow after lunch and require a lay down alone in your chamber.  Do not allow your ladies to tend to you.”  

“I understand.”  She looked fit to burst into excited giggles at having her prayers answered.  

Petyr felt his cheeks dimple at her naive elation.  His hand lifted hers, and his head bent to press a kiss to the back of it.  His eyes closed as he breathed in the scent of her lotion and told himself that soon enough, his body would be covered with it, and her.  She smiled at his seemingly gentlemanly gesture and he released her, “Go now.  All will be well, Sansa.  Do not allow yourself to fret anymore.  Not in this.”  

She mouthed another thank you and offered a slight bow of her head before she lifted her hood to conceal her identity and scurried down the hall.  Petyr closed the door quickly, and leaned against it in exasperation.  His eyes closed, as his hand pressed against his erection, offering it much needed pressure.  

A cocky voice sounded in his ears, “Can I be of service?”  

It was Olyvar.  He was very proficient at knowing when Petyr may require his assistance.  However, he would not do.  Not this time.  Petyr didn’t bother to open his eyes and acknowledge the man as he said, “Bring me a redhead.”  Remembering who he was talking to, he added, “Female, Olyvar.  I wish to fuck.”         

 


	2. A True Friend Dutifully Endures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One

Having never had cause to be in Sansa’s chambers before, Petyr found himself oddly curious.  Would it still hold tokens of her youth, as the sentimentality of the female mind was often compelled to keep?  Or, would it bear similar traits to many more established ladies’ chambers in her quest to appear more mature?  He had barely had a moment to peer through her correspondence, before he heard movement outside the chamber door, and scurried to the shadows of her room.  

Sansa’s voice was reassuring as she spoke to her girl, Shae, and told her that she didn’t require any assistance, simply rest.  The girl insisted that she be of use, to Petyr’s surprise.  She was a whore, he recognized her and what she did as plain as Ned Stark’s strategy.  She was also, obviously Tyrion’s personal whore, or she wouldn’t be in Sansa’s employ.  Smart men kept their women close to them, often times linking them to their wives, to avoid suspicion.  Tyrion, while more honorable than he’d allow people to believe, didn’t allow himself to become addle-brained because of it.  He was a smart man, if still an embarrassment of one.  Why would a whore in disguise put so much energy into serving a lady when no one of importance was there to observe it?  Petyr made mental note of the oddity for possible use later.  

The door latched shut, and he watched Lady Sansa through the transparent material that draped around the head of her bed.  There was no hiding the timidity on her face as she turned her head, scanning her bedroom for her expected _ guest.   _ Petyr felt his lip twitch at the sight of her smoothing her palms over her skirts as anxiety was besting her.  He knew he could not wait any longer before he must reveal himself, as she would come to realize that he had been there the whole time.  Petyr rested a palm against his abdomen, a gesture that he had purposefully mastered, indicating that he was both non-threatening as well as making a show of fortifying himself for whatever direction their conversation took him.  It was quite like Sansa’s tendency to lay her palms on her skirts, readying herself for whatever lay ahead.  He schemed that the subtle idiosyncrasy would signal a sense of similarity between them.  Petyr knew people, and people were more apt to trust like things.  

Sansa appeared to be relaxing, thinking that her visitor had not come.  Her forehead unwrinkled in relief as she stepped towards her vanity.  It was at this sign of repose that Petyr took a step forward from behind the shade in the room.  The beautiful creature preening in her mirror, heard his boot set against the stone floor and froze, caught off guard.  Nervous eyes roved around for the noise she’d heard, unable to convince her neck to turn her head for a better view.  Petyr took another step on the floor, and at the sound, Sansa peered at him through her reflection and exclaimed, “Petyr!”  

The note she hit in her clamor only sped the blood coursing through his veins, making him feel more alive than ever.  Oh the concertos she would soon sing for him.  He brought his other hand to his lips to indicate a need for quiet, and then held that same silencing palm flat out in submission as he whispered, “The walls have ears, Sansa.  You are thought to be resting now.”  

She rose from her seat and glided over to him, standing closer than she normally initiated, much to his pleasure.  Petyr caught the scent of her lotion and refused to allow himself an outward reaction to it, though he instantly felt his animal instincts stirring inside of himself.  Fucking that girl all night, as he tried to remember Sansa’s individual specifications, aided him in satiating his appetite at the time.  Though now, faced directly with the temptation of her features made real, unimagined, only spawned more desire in him.  Her voice cracked a couple of times as she whispered, “I did not expect you to deliver the  _ specialist _ , personally.  Where is she?”  

She.  The naivety was scrumptious.  Petyr reached for her hand, wanting to feel her skin against his as he told her that he would be playing the part of instructor.  She looked down at his gentle but firm grip and smiled politely at him as a result.  Petyr rubbed a circle into the back of her hand as he explained, “Sansa, the scandal you spoke of yesterday, was not an idea befitting a lady of your stature.  It could very well be your ruin.”  

Heated blood raged across her skin like wildfire, starting at her chest and burned up her throat and into her cheeks.  Her eyes cast down in shame.  Petyr felt his heart speed up as he watched her body color for him, at her inability to meet his eye.  He forced the glee from his smile, as he continued, “As a friend of your family’s, and  _ yours, _ I can not allow the possibility of such misfortune to fall upon you.  The chance of word spreading is too great.  If people at court learned that my whores are servicing you--”  He paused for dramatic effect, knowing that the last statement was turning her many different shades of embarrassment.  He then shook his head vehemently, “I won’t risk it.  Not while I have the ability to prevent you such  _ disgrace _ .”  

She was stock-still and silent, the only indication that she was still living, aside from her vibrant coloring, was the slight tremble of her lip.  His words had clearly mortified her to a glass-eyed mutism.  He wondered how long it would take for her to recover, or if perhaps she wouldn’t at all, and choose to retreat instead.  Finally, she spoke down to their still-joined hands, “You said that you would help me.”  

Petyr closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, savoring the feeling of anticipation that built in his chest and groin.  It was time to offer her hope.  His voice softened and he forced the beginnings of a tear to his eye, a trick he’d perfected in his youth.  Tilting his head, he explained, “And I will, if you’ll allow.”  

Her eyebrow raised at him and she opened her mouth, no doubt to tell him that she didn’t understand why he would think she wouldn’t allow assistance she had been pleading for.  Petyr spoke before she could utter a word, “To ensure that your reputation stay in tact, I am afraid that I trust no one else but myself to have knowledge of this.”  

“Then, how will--”  She stopped herself mid-sentence as all the turning cogs and wheels of her brain clicked into place, leaving her with the answer.  Where she had such color to her cheeks before, they were now completely drained, and she looked about to faint. 

Petyr guided her to sit on the edge of her bed, to save her any head injury that may occur from such a fall.  Feeling the firm mattress under them must have grounded her back in reality, because she swallowed and blinked her eyes, slowly reanimating.

He knew he must align with that feeling of shock and impossibility to pull her out of the depth of it.  Petyr allowed one tear to creep out of his eye, and his voice to thicken, “I know, it is unthinkable.  Our friendship is too honest and pure for such vulgarity to ever be a consideration.  My loyalty to you and your family, makes the very idea of this  _ unnatural _ .”

Sansa started to nod her agreement, life returning to her.  He could tell that her worry was easing, as she naively believed the threat of his inappropriate touch was fading.  

In her comforted state, Petyr brought their joined hands to sit in her lap.  The change in position allowed his fingers to rest on her thigh under the pretense of gripping her hand.  Now touching both her hand and leg, he added, “I think of my childhood friend and the loyalty I’ve always shown her, and I know my words are just.”  He decided to mention Cat, call forth the image of her mother, to pull her heartstrings.  People could be quite malleable in their grief.    

Sansa offered a small smile at mention of his conscience.  Or perhaps, mention of her mother; he cared not which.  Clearing his throat, appearing belabored with his emotions, Petyr continued to sing his false song, “I consider her lovely daughter coming to me for aid.  And I don’t believe I have the fortitude to turn her away.”  He brought his eyes to hers as he worried his brows in supposed submission, “I am willing to assist you, Sansa, whatever the discomfort associated.”  He watched her breath catch and added, “It’s only right that I be the one to help you,  _ for Cat _ .”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, either from shock at his declaration or thoughts of her mother.  The reason was again of no consequence, it was an opening for Petyr to bring his other hand forward and graze the back of his knuckles down her cheek.  Her eyes widened at the gesture, and he offered a sad smile, “May I kiss you?  As friends do?” 

Too petrified to reply, she only opened and closed her mouth slightly as her mind raced behind her eyes, and her chest grew in anxiety.  He took her silence for consent and leaned forward, resting his lips on hers.  An innocent kiss would have seen him breaking their chaste connection by now, though this was a foundation, meant to be built upon.  Petyr lingered a second too long before pulling his lips from hers.  Her eyes were still closed, and her cheeks were a delicious rose-red.  Petyr felt his arousal stir as he wondered if her hardened nipples would match the color of her flush.  She held her eyes closed a moment too long, and he bit back a smirk as he realized that she was not immune to the hunger of her erogenous flesh.  He would gladly feed her. 

Being young and inexperienced, she probably felt she needed wooing and real love to achieve the joy that a rock hard cock between her legs could give.  Romance and adoration were time consuming and unnecessary when riding the waves of orgasm.  He decided to pull upon that need in her, and he softened his voice as he asked, “Have you ever been kissed before?”  

Slowly, her head nodded, her voice still run away.  Of course she had been.  She was betrothed to Joffery, it was a miracle that the girl’s maidenhead was still in tact.  Petyr knew he could thank Cersei for assuring that, not wanting her darling son to impregnate anyone prematurely.  Petyr was actually surprised to find Cersei of all people, acting his greatest ally in preserving Sansa’s tight little cunt.  It was difficult not to chuckle, but he knew his audience so he settled for a wry smile as he said, “I suppose Joffrey required it of you.”  

She cringed at mention of the abusive king, and Petyr only took the opportunity to lean in closer and grip her hand tighter as he consoled her, “Oh, Sweetling.  I apologize for any harm I may have caused in speaking his name.  I can’t fathom the pain those memories must bring.”  

Her voice sounded strangled as she replied, “He didn’t.  Require it of me.”  Well that was surprising, to be sure.  Petyr found it further astonishing that Sansa decided to end the one-sided aspect of their conversation by talking about how she lacked in kisses.  If that was not an indication of her desire to be kissed, Petyr didn’t know what was.  

“I see,” he answered, looking down at their joined hands.  He gave her palm a squeeze and he explained, “Kissing, as men and women do, aids in preparing the lady for…”  He let his voice trail off, allowing her time to realize what he was telling her.  He could almost hear her heartbeat thumping loudly in her chest, as her eyes widened at the very thought of it.  After she appeared to be calming, he continued, “There are changes, that occur throughout the body, that are necessary in…”  He lost his words again, making a show of his false discomfort.  

This time, it was her that soldiered on bravely, not allowing herself to be so stalled by the imagery her mind must be making.  “I see.”  

Did she?  Had she felt the surge between her legs that every woman felt when touched properly?  Had her folds ever before slickened to allow a man to slide comfortably inside?  His heart sped up, thinking of her small clothes, and what mild indiscretions she may have engaged in to dampen them.  Curiosity provoked him to ask, “Have you experienced such a thing, sweetling?”  

The color ran back to her cheeks and her mouth opened slightly, stuttering a weak response.  Petyr placed his finger on her lips, halting her words.  Her chest grew with a deep breath, let out hot against his finger, and her eyes fluttered down trying to see past her nose.  

Petyr leaned forward and whispered, “Shh, it’s alright.”  He let his finger slide away from her mouth, across her warm cheek, to settle on her jaw.  Her eyelids grew heavy at his touch, and she craned her neck as much as he tilted her face.  All the nerve endings in his body fired with awareness as he realized that she was leaning into him, wantonly offering her lips up.  Petyr gently squeezed her hand in his to distract and remind her that his hold was secure.  He hoped once she realized how much of her he detained, she’d be deterred from thoughts of escape.  His mouth set gently upon hers, as it had before, initially.  However, to her surprise, his lips parted to catch hers.       

The move was a gamble, even with Petyr’s various manipulations stacking the odds in his favor.  To achieve success, he would have to balance both a level of vigor to encourage her own arousal, as well as some restraint to keep her from recoiling away.  The goal was simple: to end their session with her pleading for another.    

Sweet Sansa’s hand gripped his in her lap, tightening as he offered the slightest hint of succling at her plump lip.  Petyr had no need of religion, though found himself praying she might grip him harder, knowing too well the satisfaction of a woman’s desperate midcoitus clutch.   

Petyr snapped his eyes open, staring at her closed lids, to temper his growing desire.  The ache in his loins warned him that he was becoming too invested in their activities.  He might have broken away from her lips, forced himself back to a more comfortable though disappointing level of flaccidity, but he knew he was breaking new ground.  

Trusting his experience and ability to keep him from giving the reigns of control to his primitive need to ravage her, he closed his eyes again.  Sansa had started to tilt her head, about to break from his hold, when he swiped the very tip of his tongue over the bit of pouty flesh he held hostage.  Her resulting shiver was reflexive and luscious.  Petyr took the opportunity to stabilize her, by smoothing the hand on her face, the few inches over to the base of her neck.

With this new hold, he anchored her in place while he licked and sucked her bottom lip until she opened to him, breathing a quiet moan into his mouth.  Triumph surged through him as he carefully divested her of her purity, and worked to foster the promiscuity necessary for him to have her later.  His tongue charged forward, massaging against the side of hers, as he offered a more ardent kiss.  Petyr was pleased to discover that she, however clumsy and inexperienced, was reciprocating.  He noted what a quick study she was, and mused over how he might exploit that quality over the next four days.

After hearing her moan into him a second time, Petyr knew he needed to slow their progress.  He could not risk her conscience impeding them later.  He understood that if things moved too fast at once, regardless of how her body responded to him, once she was alone, she would chastise herself for her part in things.  Too much guilt and shame, closed a woman’s thighs, as quickly it could open them.  

Her eyes fluttered open, drunk on his affections.  Petyr felt the effects of her as well, though wouldn’t present as such.  He could not allow her to see how much he craved her supple body and all the joys it could bring him, or he would cease to be the true friend.  He would instead be seen for a lecherous old man who conned her into a lewd kiss.  He cleared his throat and softened his eyes, as if he too were as taken aback by their shared moment as she was.  Surprised, shocked, overwhelmed; all acceptable responses to the out of character intimacy they had just shared.  Petyr was very proficient at selecting the appropriate action to portray, while tucking away the more sinful ones for later.  

The elongated silence that followed could have ended this whole endeavor in its early stages of growth.  She didn’t stir, so Petyr chose to remain still as well, both hands on her.  This move, too, was a gamble and he knew it.  He also knew the more she allowed his touch the better.  It was her that spoke first, a question tiptoeing into her statement, “That is how lords and ladies kiss in their bed chambers.”  

Oh, the innocence.  The devil inside Petyr was giddy at the chance to show her what else lords and ladies did in their bedchambers.  He would make her wail in ecstasy as he forgot his own name buried in the depths of her quim.  Petyr nodded his head, and then decided to push for more, “It is the start.”  

“ _ Start _ ?  You mean there is more to a kiss?”  Beautiful Sansa Stark’s eyes appeared about to leap out of their sockets, and Petyr didn’t miss the tinge of excitement in her voice.

He looked down at their hands in her lap, still refusing to relinquish hold of her neck as he rubbed his thumb back and forth over her jaw.  He loathed how he couldn’t reveal his true lust, despite how enthused she appeared to be growing.  This was supposed to be a burden for him to bear, a duty he must carry out, however uncomfortable.  Young girls, trained to be polite and always think of others, were always willing to go out of their way to ease any imposition.  He would call upon her perfect breeding to his advantage.

It was with that in mind that Petyr bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as he allowed his indecency to flow out of him in the form of instructor, “If done properly, a kiss of that nature is meant to elicit a response from--”

“Yes!”  She nervously cut him off, and he could feel her blush hot under his thumb.  He was unsure whether she cut him off because she was so engrossed in their activities, and was professing its effects on her.  Or if to simply cease any mention of her womanhood.  

This was something he wished to discover.  “Sansa, are you agreeing,” he purposefully chose the word  _ agree  _ to reinforce how together they were.  “Because you understand my words?”  Ever the apt pupil, his quick-study.  “Or because you are confessing,”   _ Oh, sin _ .  His mouth watered at the prospect of her requiring confession after he had his fill of her.  Petyr’s own word choices and her corresponding looks sent tingles from his prick to his balls and back again.  He lowered his voice, demonstrating the scandalous nature of their discussion, “That you felt  _ moved _ ?” 

“ _ Petyr,”  _ she breathed, and he thought of her breathing his name for other reasons.  

“What is it, sweetling?”  He hovered his face mere inches from hers in a show of concern.

“I, I, don’t--”  She shook her head, clearly uncertain of how to respond.  

Finding her inexperience grand, he let his thumb rub her cheek as he quieted her, “Shh, it’s alright.  If you are  _ affected _ then you are in the first stages of the preparation.”  

She closed her eyes, clearly embarrassed and overwhelmed.  His voice was tentative as he asked, “If you are uncertain, would you prefer I try again?”  

Her eyes snapped open in shock, but before she could make a sound, his lips were on hers.  He felt her eyelashes close against his face as he angled more aggressively, surpassing the foothold he created previously.  Her responsive moans urged him on, his tongue completely invading her, coaxing her to allow more and more.  It wasn’t until he felt her head tilt in the opposite direction, and her dainty tongue tickle inside of his own mouth, that his decision was vindicated.  Petyr almost broke the kiss, laughing victoriously, realizing her to be an active participant.  Fortunately, years of experience kept him from openly expressing his amusement, and he seized the prime opportunity to step a little further past the boundary lines.  

Their kiss sped up as she was now more certain of her movements, to no small effect in his breeches.  He offered a practiced gasp of pleasure, knowing that if she were the only person wantonly expressing herself, she would feel more shame and regret later.  No.  She had to see to some small degree how she affected him so that she would be more willing to press on, if for no other reason than to take pity on the man that she roused.  

Petyr loosened his fingers from her neck, and let his hand slide down, his thumb lazily trailed down her throat, busy with the motion of her efforts.  As he sucked clean the excess saliva that they had built, his hand stalled over her collarbone.  The soft mewl she gave, urged him to continue.  Not one to deny a lady, especially not one as hungry as she, Petyr slid his tongue further into her mouth, and let his hand creep over her chest, above her bosom.  

His cock begged for individual attention as he felt her small frame press hard against his hand, puffing her chest out, however slightly.  Petyr knew that he could easily bring his hand down and cup her, squeezing a voluptuous breast tenderly as his fingers plucked at her teets.  He also knew that if he did that, her conscience would ruin her for the next day, and he had plans for tomorrow.  He required restraint.

Sansa sighed as his hand descended, turning so that his finger tips inched towards her arm, and his palm slid around the outside of her breast, more towards her side.  It was still inappropriate, though arguably a more respectful gesture.  He felt the rapidity of her heart beating in her tiny corseted ribcage, the organ too big for it’s casing.  As Sansa twisted her neck again, adjusting their mouth’s caress, Petyr found his opening, and allowed his thumb to swipe over her breast as he made to bring all of his digits to rest comfortably under her arm.  He knew he had made contact, grazing her nipple, when she shivered unexpectedly, the reaction too immediate and dramatic to be ignored.  

Petyr muzzled the grin that tried to take hold of his features, as he pulled away from her, knowing that she had experienced more in the passing hour than she had in all of her young life.  Sansa’s eyes blinked open as he released his grip on her ribs, and brought that hand down to join the two that had been settled in her lap.  He did not expect her to have anything substantial to say, her head swimming against a current of churning emotions all concerning the lines she allowed her true friend to slink over.  

He inhaled slowly, and blinked as if trying to regain his composure, planting and nurturing the idea that he was becoming just as swept up by the sensation of it all, as she was.  It would be difficult to harbor resentment for another victim, especially if he was only enduring the experience dutifully for her benefit.  After a brief silence, Petyr released her hand and made to rise, “It would be best if I left.”

“No!”  She exclaimed, forgetting propriety in her sudden need to keep him.  Petyr closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, holding the beast within at bay.  What he wouldn’t offer to sink himself so completely in her  _ enthusiasm. _  When he opened his eyes, schooling the animal urges from them, she breathed, “I, uh…”  She swallowed and took a breath before trying again, “I understand your meaning…”  

The laces in his breeches were restraints tying his cock down, keeping it from the freedom of fresh air and the utopia of Sansa Starks wet cunni, now pulsing especially for him.  It took more reserve than Petyr would like to admit, not to reach his dagger down, slice through the laces, and offer the virginal goddess in front of him a true lesson in man.  

Petyr allowed an uncomfortable smile to flash across his lips, softening his eyes again in mock vulnerability, as he nodded knowingly.  And why wouldn’t he know?  He was not young and handsome like Loras the Sword Swallower, but he was Petyr Baelish, a man made in brothels, excelling in the business of women and desire.  Soon enough, this boy turned man from the Fingers would show her just what his fingers were capable of.  He told himself not to travel that trail of thought, as he needed to appear more modest and belabored by the experience.  He sighed softly as he removed a sapphire ring that he had fashioned for her in the late hours of the night before.  

Sansa watched, appearing glad at the distraction from their meaningful gazes.  He reached for her hand and slid the jewel on her slender finger, offering a wry smile when she looked up at him questioningly.  “I will not pretend that the situation is ideal, but my friendship is constant and my personal comfort means little next to your peace of mind.”  When she looked down at her ring, not immediately agreeing with him, Petyr offered an exaggeration, “Anything that I can do to save you the  _ excruciating _ pain of losing your maidenhead to your betrothed, I will do so readily and without regret.”  

Her chest heaved as she took a shaky breath, absorbing the threat of agony Tyrion’s cock might cause.  Water wet her eyes, as she grabbed his hand whispering, “You are my only true friend, Petyr.”  

His heart slammed against his chest, setting off into the excited gallop of a man grooming his new mare for riding.  The resplendent redhead with crystal eyes was singling him out as her only trusted support.  There was no other to share her secrets with, and tell of her clandestine preparations with Lord Baelish in her chambers.  There was no one to challenge her decisions or counsel her against such behavior.  No one.  Only her will alone could withhold from him the feel of her rump pressed into the vee of his pelvis as his cock wore the snug glove of her budding womanhood.  

Petyr rose again, discreetly smoothing a hand over his tunic, offering himself a quick press to quell the build up of need that was in and of itself becoming unbearable.  She stared back at him as he stood before her, and he stifled a smirk at her bewildered expression.  He lowered his voice as he instructed her, “Take tonight, consider our time together today, as well as what awaits you on your wedding night.  If you wish for me to return to you tomorrow, to continue assisting you, wear this ring at court.”  He gestured toward her hand, “I will look for it to know whether or not you require any further  _ assistance. _ ”  

He took a step back towards the door, and as she opened her mouth to speak, he raised his hand to silence her.  Petyr nodded his head once and then turned on his heel, leaving her to drown in the craving he created.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What's wrong with a kiss, boy? Hmm? Why not start her off with a nice kiss?" -- Monty Python


	3. A Target Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2

Petyr picked through the correspondence in Sansa’s room as he had intended the day before, deeming them all benign.  It wasn’t until he read the word,  _ Mockingbird _ , that he paused for a closer inspection.  The parchment read:  _ It is the labor of some birds to mock and others to mourn.  Though, one is not so entirely unlike the other.  Grief consumes feeling until one’s left to mimic from others what is lost in them.  Perhaps the Dove will learn to be as the Mockingbird. _

A victorious grin took over Petyr’s face as he realized the meaning behind Sansa’s angst-ridden words.  She was forming an admiration for him.  The poor girl’s first real kiss had been the day before with a lecherous man twice her senior.  Her pubescent body’s reflexive response to the attentions he paid her, had affected her thoughts.  Her young mind was romanticizing what they shared to make it a more palatable experience and memory.

He flipped the parchment over, determining whether she meant to send it to anyone in particular.  It being blank on the back with no folds or creases, indicated that it was simply a private thought of a girl of four and ten, spilled from brain to page.

He heard someone approaching her chamber and he shuffled back to the shadow by her bed, careful to avoid a glimpse caught by her supposed lady’s maid.  Sansa would be smart enough to discourage the woman from following.  Though, Petyr knew the whore to be an insistent sort.  

The sound of the door latching shut caught his attention and he watched fire-kissed locks through the transparent material that hung around Sansa’s bed as he had the day before.  This time, however, she was expecting him.  And why shouldn’t she?  He had offered her a token with which to summon him.  Though she showed hesitation all morning, at the last moment, his spies caught her donning it.  Her fingers twisted nervously at the ring worn to request another clandestine meeting as she peered around her chamber whispering, “ _ Petyr? _ ”  

He smoothed his hands over his tunic, letting them rest just midway, anchoring them to himself--to start.  He took a steady step into sight, keeping his movements smooth and with a slight tilt of his head, he acknowledged her, “Sansa.” 

She gasped through a smile, both relief and anxiety playing across her features.  Petyr took a step forward needing to make the first contact, show her that they would need to be bolder today.  She looked down, seeing his motion come into her periphery as he reached for her hand.  Petyr was pleased to see her chest raise in a deep breath meant to control her natural response to him.  

He felt his body hum in awareness of the effect he was having as he wondered what her instincts might be.  Did she recognize him on some primal level to be the predator that he was?  Did she realize that she was not the empowered woman he build her up to believe, but instead his prey?  Would she turn tail and run, initiating an invigorating pursuit?  Offering just enough resistance to justify the way she’d be splayed out for him later?  Or would it be to throw herself at him, and melt so willingly under his touch, begging to be eaten alive?  

Though all that they’d shared thus far was mere kisses with a touch of  _ more _ , she allowed him to insist things unacceptable for such a chaste northern lady.  He held her hand in his, and allowed his fingers to roll and pluck the ring he marked her with.  Sansa’s eyes fluttered, feeling the meaning behind his gestures, even if she didn’t consciously understand them, and she took another deep breath.  Petyr looked down at their hands to hide his joy at her response to such a seemingly innocent touch.  If she were going to wear his ring, indicate a desire for his continued treatment, she’d have to become accustomed to the feel of his skin burning across hers.  “I see, you’re wearing the ring I allowed you.”  Lovers gave gifts.  Petyr would play the role of token-adorning-lover if she bestowed upon him the indulgence that only her tight cunni and petite pout could.

Before she could think on his words too long, he rubbed his thumb away from the ring and to the palm of her hand, “I take your wearing it to mean, that you’d like to continue,” Petyr would say “preparations” were he to be delicate with the subject.  Instead, he chose to say, “our private sessions.”  He knew that the implication was so much more wicked, as a session could mean any manner of impropriety. 

That delicious rose red lightly dusted her chest, visibly displaying her virginal modesty.   Sansa opened her mouth and closed it a couple of times, uncertain in her response.  After hasty consideration, she settled for a slight nod of her head.  Petyr used his grip on their hands to gently pull her forward, and slid his free palm to her waist.  Her eyes lifted at the feel of his rogue grip so securely against her, and she gasped when he simultaneously took a step forward and pressed her midriff to him.  Petyr watched her breathing hitch, and felt her chest grow and contract against his as he let go of his original hold.  Unwilling to accept any less than all of her, he moved his hand to the small of her back.  His lips hovered above hers, “Have you ever stood this close to a man before?”  

Sansa stared back at him wide-eyed, too struck by the sudden stimulation that being so completely caught up in his clutches offered, to remember which way to motion her head, let alone utter a word.  Petyr offered a sad sigh as he apologized, “I imagine not.  I do apologize Sansa, as I know that this is uncomfortable.”  He schooled his face to hide the smile that begged to be worn at seeing her so affected.  “Though, I think it important that you become accustomed to this proximity with a man, as it will better prepare you.”  

He let his thumb draw tiny circles against her back as he watched her eyes move, processing his words.  Slowly, he permitted the hand that held her waist, to roam up the side of her ribs, feeling the movement of her chest under his palm.  Petyr did nothing to hide his growing erection, as he thought of how wet her small clothes must be growing without him even stroking any of her sensitive places yet.  It was unlikely that Sansa Stark, proper highborn lady, would understand what a hard bulge in a man’s breeches meant anyway.  There was, at times, a safety in ignorance.

Her breath caught as his fingertips teased dangerously close to her breast.  Petyr delighted at seeing the panic play across her face as she wondered whether or not he would surpass his lesson from the day before.  He most certainly would.  Petyr stared down at her lips, barely in his field of vision and instructed, “Kiss me.”

She froze in his arms, stunned by his blunt directive.  The starting off point hadn’t been anything more than what she was agreeable to the day before.  Petyr let his eyelids shut, awaiting her acquiescence.  He felt her lean forward, pressing further against him, as her lips tickled his.  He smiled into her mouth as he coaxed it open further, urging more.  Her tongue slid past his, taking some ownership of their embrace. 

Petyr allowed a small moan to escape him in approval of her advance.  And though she startled at his expression, she did not break away, instead meeting him at his pace.  Sansa demonstrated her newly acquired skills as their kiss deepened, teeth tugging at lips, and tongues dancing together.  Petyr delighted her particular flavor.  Her mouth was not as sweet as the lemoncakes she enjoyed, but instead carried the bawdy taste of a woman wanting.  He pressed his manhood further against the resistance of her body as he considered gladly offering her what her body desired. 

The ringed fingers that lingered under the curve of her breast, grew daring in their exploration, as his palm trailed behind to cup the soft and tender flesh through the material of her gown.  Petyr held her close as he offered her a gentle squeeze, noting how well she filled his hands.  The passion of their kiss kept her from conscious awareness, saving her the responsibility of feigning protest.  As the true libertine she was proving to be, she squirmed and mewled in his grip, forgetting her duty to be pure in her need to be corrupted.

The courageous hand that cupped and massaged her breast through her gown, focused more on the hardened peak that grew under the material that shielded it from direct contact.  What Petyr wouldn’t give to rip that barrier away and wrap his lips around her constricted teet, flicking it to attention for him with his expert tongue.  The thought of it alone sent an ache to his balls as they tightened over the promise of such intimate knowledge.  

He allowed himself a fantasy of a time in the future with her.  They would sit in court, all observing eyes believing them to have no connection, as she would reflexively part her legs under the table at his suggestive smile.  She would know what his expression meant by then, and she would relish his secret caresses.  

Petyr had viewed it a lascivious challenge to strip away the girl’s innocence leaving her only his acrimonious cock, plunging past the point of reason in her tight little gash.  Though, reading her juvenile crush, shared with no one that could judge or betray her confidence, Petyr knew he could groom her to exceed his initial expectations.  He would know the victory of the first assault on her purity, though he knew now that he could continue his invasions at will after, until he tired of her.  It did not matter who she was married to, where her loyalty must lay, she would permit his entry whenever he requested it.  His mind raced with all the places throughout the castle he would have prim and proper Sansa Stark, soon to be known as Sansa Lannister, hike up her skirts and writhe as he speared her repeatedly with his cock.  

The hand at the small of her back, slid down, following the curve of her ass, as his fingertips curled into a possessive squeeze.  She may belong to another man, and she may have wanted another still, but here in these stolen moments, she belonged to no one but him.  Each dip and bend of her body, all the sounds she assailed him with, the breath she held and the colors her skin wore, all belonged to Petyr Baelish.  A simple nobody from the Fingers: how far he’d descended into the pits of sin.  He used his hold on her backside to drive her pelvis further into his as he smiled diabolically into their kiss. 

The effect his attentions had on her was undeniable as she broke free from his lips, her hands gripping his back for support as she gasped her surprise and arousal.  Her forehead bobbed, light-headed before it rested against his face as she whispered, “Petyr.”  

“Mm?”  He offered her a light peck of a kiss on her nose, reminding himself not to appear to enjoy their activities too much.  

A dark crimson washed her features as she slowly realized how much further they had come from the day before.  Petyr smirked out of her field of view, knowing that they were far from finished yet.  He felt a dash of pride at how strong her voice was, even if she did not meet his eye as she said, “That was not appropriate.”  

His hands had slowly receded from their residence on her more intimate places when she had stopped their kiss, and had been resting in the safe asylum of her waist.  It was at her judgment on propriety that he allowed one to rise and stroke the long strands of her tawny hair, as he assured her, “It is not.  Though, it is part of the process.”  

She pulled her head from his, still allowing the comforting brush of her hair as she looked back at him, doubtfully.  He nodded back at her, deciding to give her permission for pleasure, “Did you not feel the effects of,” he paused, putting emphasis on the last bit, “ _ my  _ touch?” 

A good noble lady would refuse to answer, a great one would even try to deny it, but Sansa surprised him with her honesty.  One might think it was an involuntary shiver, with how slight and rapid the movement of her head, nodding in agreement.  “Hmm?”  Petyr pressed, pushing her past her limits, making her say it aloud. 

Her timid voice agreed, “Yes.”  Her face burrowed into him, trying to hide from her own admission.  “We should not be held together so affectionately.”  Her words condemned their actions, as her lips brushed his skin.  Her need to conceal her embarrassment only drove her further into his embrace and the bloodrush in his breeches that had never relented only furthered at the tickle against his neck.  

Petyr inhaled the scent of her hair, pomegranates and fresh linen, before he gradually detached from her.  The bewildered look in her eyes showed the war within between what she knew and what she felt.  She should appreciate the distance between them as her words had reminded them that pleasure was not appropriate.  Though after just a couple of days, sharing the intimacy of their secret, her body had learned to welcome the feel of him.  The thrill Petyr felt over creating such dissonance inside her, sent one hand to thread it’s fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck.  It was such a dominant hold that Petyr knew from experience would keep her in place as he played her body to his liking.  It took all the self-control of his experience to keep himself from using that grip to pull her down and force her mouth with his cock.  Breathe, Baelish, breathe.  He calmed the animal inside as he reminded himself that it would be better when she went willingly, her clumsy unpracticed pursuit of her own volition.  He softened his eyes as he cooed to her, “You’re doing so well, Sansa.”  

Perhaps it was her youth, or perhaps it was the lack of praise in her life, that made her stifle a proud smile, “Am I?”  

Petyr nodded his head, “You are.  I have no doubt that you will be prepared when the time comes.”  He paused, watching relief ease her before he explained further.  “All of this,” the hand still on her waist moved to her abdomen, “each action, is meant to build upon the other.”  He felt her body roll against his touch as her breathing labored.  His other hand anchored her in place, “As awkward as it may feel, my lady, it is all a necessary... _ evil _ .”  She inhaled sharply at his wicked choice in words and Petyr brought his lips close to hers as his fingers found and began unfastening a clasp to her gown over her breast.  “I’m afraid, sweetling, that we mustn’t be modest in our work.”  

He pulled back the first layer of fabric, and his hand instantly moved to the next clasp, working it open as she stared back into his eyes, feeling the heat of their lips millimeters apart.  Petyr pulled the fabric back further, leaving just the thin gauze of her shift to cover the full breasts that he’d taken to gratifying himself over on more than one occasion.  With great restraint, Petyr held their progress, determined that she would kiss him before he would her.  She may have been a good little maiden, but under his tutelage, she was a debauched one.  To spur her on, Petyr allowed his fingertips to tease a nipple through the cloth, unleashing a needy moan before her lips flew to his.  

Affected by her sudden tenacity, Petyr pulled the neckline of her shift down, exposing her breast to the open air before he covered it with his palm.  Her sighs of approval into his mouth, encouraged him to let go of her hair to free her other breast.  Her instincts took over as she pressed further into him, grinding herself against his erection.  It was not often that Petyr found use for the gods, but today he was thankful to them that such motions were made innate in man and woman.  

She was warm and smooth against his palms, her back arched to offer her hardened nipples more readily.  Petyr turned them and took a step backwards, guiding her to the bed.  He had wanted to lay her down on it, but wouldn’t allow himself to yet.  Not on this day.  When he felt his calves hit the side of the bed, he deepened their kiss, offering his tongue one last delicious taste of hers before he broke away from her.  They both stood staring, eyes alight with their desire to continue.  She breathed her question, “ _ Petyr?” _

“Shh, shh.”  He pressed a finger to her lips as the amoral nature of his thoughts pulled his gaze down to her naked breasts.  As if noticing for the first time, though he knew she’d known well all along, Sansa made a show of looking down and gasping.  Goosebumps pimpled her flesh, as she shivered both in the cold air and the nervous realization of such exposure.  On her wedding night she would be able to hide behind soft candlelight, mild inebriation, and the idea of duty to fortify her against the fears of such blatant nudity.  Petyr would not afford her such luxuries.  He wanted her completely sober and conscious of her decision to sate her carnal desires with him.  “Do you trust me, Sansa?”  

She closed her eyes.  Petyr let the finger that had been quieting her, trail over her chin and down her throat, dipping into the divot of her clavicle before blazing a path down to her breast.  He circled her nipple as she breathed, “ _ Yes, Petyr.” _

At that, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of her bed, parting his knees, and pulling her to stand between them.  Petyr reached up, grabbing her gown and shift all together in his fists as he pulled the material over her shoulders and down, freeing her whole upper body to him.  A nervous giggle escaped her lips, and he searched her face for any indication that he had been too forceful in his advance.  Not fearful or chaste, Sansa made no motion to cover herself or flee him.  Instead, her eyes dilated as she looked down at him, waiting to see what he would do next.  

Her breasts were now eye level and Petyr used the new position to his advantage.  His hands rested on her hips, stabilizing her as he placed kisses over her abdomen, nuzzling his face in between her breasts.  He let one hand raise back to her breast, kneading it as he brought his mouth to it, tonguing her nipple.  Her breathy moans sounded from above him as he moved to the other breast, wanting her to feel equal pleasure to both.  The movement was slight, but Petyr recognized it all the same when he felt her hips rocking under his one handed grip.  

He glanced up at her, noting how unaware she was of her body’s natural response.   Her eyes closed and her face tilted to the ceiling, as she felt his mouth against her.  Petyr caught one of her hands, moving erratically with nothing to grip, and placed it on his head, encouraging her to use him as her anchor.  Her fingers massaged his scalp as he traced his tongue down to her navel, bringing his hands under her skirts, finding her stocking legs.  He let his palms rest low on her knees at first as he nipped her belly and rubbed his goatee against her skin.  

Her other hand came to rest on his head, and both sets of fingers thread into his hair as he kissed his way back up to her breasts, allowing the parallel motion of his palms to slide up the outsides of her thighs, past the tops of her stockings, to the fringe of her small clothes.  He reminded himself to keep away from her molten core, as he captured her nipple in his mouth again.  Sansa’s breathing quickened, and though she would never outright ask for it, Petyr knew she wanted him to touch her more.  Her hips shifted, getting his stilled palms to rub her skin whether he had meant for them to or not.  

Petyr admired her determination, and appreciated how much license this little crush of hers was giving him.  He brought both hands around, filling them with the rounds of her ass, squeezing and kneading it.  The more forceful the massage, the more her womanhood pressed against his chest.  Though many layers of cloth covered her sex, he knew she was affected by the pressure when he felt her roll her hips against him and a soft mewl escaped her.  His fingers traced the perimeter of her small clothes, and he closed his eyes pictured pulling the material back and sinking his fingers inside her.  That was not for today, perhaps tomorrow.  Though he did have a rather wicked idea.  He buried his face between her breasts again as he asked, “Is it to your pleasure, Sansa?”  

“Mm, Petyr.”  Her eyes remained closed as she nodded her approval.  

“Would you like me to touch you in a new place, sweetling?”  Petyr purred into her chest.  

Her eyes snapped open and her head rolled forward, staring down at him, panic filling her face.  She did not utter a word of protest, only stared at him with bright blue-eyed trepidation.  His tone deepened as he said, “Grant me permission, or I won’t.”  

Very slowly her head nodded, still unable to form words, and he watched her eyes bore into him.  His fingertips traced the borders of her small clothes, coming around to the sinful spot between her legs.  He hovered there for a moment before he pressed against her core, feeling the sodden cloth that absorbed her natural juices brought about by each kiss and touch.  His cock had been growing from the moment he heard her whisper his name as she scanned her chamber for him.  Though, now, feeling the wet evidence of her need for him, it throbbed painfully against the laces of his breeches.  Not even the heavy material of his tunic could tamper down the raging erection that begged his hands to tear the drenched fabric away from her.  It was while he was in such a state of need that he thought of the easier access, such an action would offer, to the slice of heaven that little Sansa Stark carried between her legs.  

Her hips bucked against the resistance of his finger tips as he pressed through the material to her own engorged flesh.  Petyr buried his face back between her breasts as he massaged her, kissing and whispering, “You’re doing so well, sweetling.  Such a fast learner.  I’m so proud of you.”  He chose the word “proud” because it provoked such a positive response. She allowed such liberties upon feeling that particular sentiment.  

The muscles in her body became more rigid and her motions more deliberate as she moved against his hand and Petyr knew that she was chasing a crest.  He almost pulled his hand away, leaving her a wreck, wanting and needing completion.  Why shouldn’t he?  He would not get to pump his release into her, nor would he get to spray it over her flat belly.  He would have to keep it trapped painfully in place until their time ran out for the day.  If he was to suffer, why should she not?  

Because Petyr knew more than anybody the power of orgasm.  Once one achieved it, they only wanted more.  Helping her attain such bliss was a solid investment in more to come. Keeping his hand in place, he felt the rhythm of her motion and offered her more pressure, set on actively assisting her.  It took longer, not being able to slide his fingers to the slick skin between her folds, but it was still accomplished once he heard her cry out and begin trembling against him.  A smile overtook him as he looked up and watched her pant, red-cheeked, and euphoric.  Had she ever experienced this before?  If she hadn’t then it was a great learning opportunity.  And if she had, she hadn’t ever with a partner.

As her eyes started to blink open, rejoining the land of the living, Petyr’s hands retreated from under her skirts, smoothing them back down.  He rose slowly from the bed, as his change in stance pressed his erection too tightly against his breeches and he sucked in air from the discomfort of it.  Sansa took a step back, still regaining consciousness as she watched him rise.  He reached over and pulled part of her gown back up, indicating for her to cover herself again.  She silently followed his direction, tucking her perky breasts back in the layers of cloth in which they’d been trapped by before as Petyr smoothed over the front of his tunic and cleared his throat.  

He offered her another opportunity to halt their progress, knowing that after what had just transpired, she’d be helpless to deny him, “You are still innocent Sansa.  I never breached that barrier.”  She nodded her head at him, showing both relief and a tinge of disappointment.  Petyr lifted her hand to his lips, giving her a parting kiss before he promised, “Should you wish to continue tomorrow, I will have keep up our progression.  I will ask the same of you today as I did yesterday: think on what occurred here and decide if you would still like me to visit you.”  He rolled her ring in his fingers again as he reminded her, “I’ll be looking for this at court, as indication.”  

He kissed the back of her hand once more before leaving her chamber.  Petyr knew the hall would be clear as he’d paid substantial coin to ensure it, though he still looked both ways as he moved swiftly away from the vicinity.  His pace picked up as he searched his surroundings, scurrying into the first room he knew to be safe, and shut the door quickly behind him.  

His hands hiked up his tunic and yanked at his laces, wasting no time in freeing himself.  His hand gripped his cock firmly and fiercely tugged at it as he brought the fingers that had massaged into Sansa’s saturated small clothes to his nose.  The aroma of her musky arousal sent his hips pumping into his own grip as he jumped over the edge of his climax.  As he felt himself falling down into paradise, he brought the fingers from his nose to his lips, sucking the taste off of them.  His ears rang with the thud of his own heartbeat and he missed the sound of his seed splattering on the stone floor below.

Petyr leaned against the door, panting his exertion as he thought of the look in Sansa’s eyes when she allowed him to press against her sex.  Slowly, he pulled his breeches back up, and tucked himself back into place, accidentally smearing what hadn’t dripped from his tip against his hand.  Petyr sighed at the inconvenience, then lifted his soiled hand to his mouth, licking his own salty taste off his digits.  His eyes closed and he pictured Sansa’s mouth around his cock, licking it clean and the mischievous grin that took over his lips broke the suction seal.  Satisfied that he’d been cleaned, he reached down and laced his breeches again, smoothing his tunic down, and adjusting the decorative belt that he wore over it.  He took a deep breath and grinned at the mess he’d left behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the petting be heavy!!!!


	4. From the Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3

Petyr agreed the drink was vile, having tasted it himself, leaving nothing to chance.  Regardless of the taste, he coached her to imbibe it all the same.  “I do apologize for the bitterness to the drink, sweetling.”

She shook her head and offered a half-hearted smile over the mug of tea.  Petyr had it already brewed and in hand when he arrived in her room.  She was nothing if not willing to drink what he offered, “It’s alright Petyr.  You told me how important this is, how it will allow my body to…” 

She trailed off, too mortified to continue.  Her vulnerability was blood in the water and Petyr circled around behind her, ever the hungry shark.  When he knew he was out of sight, he smirked to himself as he gathered her hair.  She flinched only slightly at the unexpected contact, but when he moved it aside, offering easier access to the ties at her back, she made no protest.  Petyr appreciated how quickly she listened to her body, choosing the promise of more pleasure over the duty of disapproval.  He finished her sentence if for no other reason than to prime her for today’s lesson, “ _ Stretch. _ ”  

He was able to discern that she was aware of the basic concept of intercourse, though lacked knowledge of the mechanics involved.  Petyr’s grin deepened as he slowly pulled at her laces, revealing more of her: shoulder blades, bumps of her spine, and the creamy expanse of her back as it tapered down beneath her shift.  Her head moved as she raised the cup for another gulp, and he was certain that her task of forcing the drink down gave her the distraction and courage necessary to allow him such liberties.  

After another audible gulp she nodded, “Yes, that’s right.  Thank you, Petyr.  You’ve been so kind to me.”  

He smoothed his voice as he leaned forward, hovering above her shoulder, “True friends are kind to each other.  I could never let you suffer, Sansa.”  He did not give her the opportunity to respond before he kissed the exposed flesh.  She shivered in response and goosebumps spread up her neck and down her back.  When she didn’t voice any hesitation, Petyr trailed kisses up to her neck, letting his hands pull the material away from her body.  

As she held the empty cup, the sleeves of her gown saved it from falling off her, though she was hardly wearing the garment anymore.  She gripped the cup, a slight tremor in her voice as she asked, “What is the name of this tea again?”  

Moon tea.  It was a concoction meant to prevent pregnancy, and while Petyr did not anticipate being inside of her on this day, he believed in laying the groundwork.  Seeing his opening, he slid his palms inside of the loose fabric, and over Sansa’s petite waist.  As he brought his body close to hers, feeling the warmth of her back against his chest, he allowed his hands to travel to her breasts.  She gasped and reflexively pushed back against him, squirming to satisfy the sudden ache in her tight little cunni.  Petyr’s erection threatened to tear through his clothes at the feel of her firm ass wiggling against him.  He leaned his chin over her shoulder and grinned as he lied, “Warm Up Tea.”  

“Oh,” she responded weakly, too caught up in the tickle of his goatee and the sensation of being gripped so wholly as each of his palms fully enclosed her breasts. 

He let his lips run ever so gently over her earlobe before he added, “It would be helpful if you set the cup down.”

She nodded as Petyr massaged her breasts over her shift, and rubbed himself against her backside.  As he worked her chest, he couldn’t help but note that she was quieter than the day before.  This was their third day together, she should have been much less reserved, especially after having felt the pleasure he offered her.  Petyr controlled his own groan of approval, at quick memory of their last encounter.  He also saw that she made no motion to release her grip on the cup, keeping the garment she wore on, even if only barely.  Petyr offered her his observation, “You feel tense, Sweetling.  Is everything alright?”  Had she not enjoyed their time together the day before?  His wet fingers said she did.  

She lowered her head and sighed, stepping out of his grasp.  No, no, no!  This was not how he had planned things.  He swooped around to the front of her, pulling her into a warm embrace, “Tell me.  Please?”    

“I’m just...,”  She shook her head, “I’m just…”  He waited patiently as she took a deep breath and continued, “Nervous.”  

“Oh sweetling!”  Petyr cooed.  He stroked her hair, in a fatherly gesture, offering her the safety one might a frightened child.  “You must know that I would never harm you.”  He brought his hand down to her cheek, pulling away from her face, to inspect her expression.  For good measure, he added, “Everything I do, is for you, Sansa.  To keep you from being hurt by that fiendish imp.”  

Sansa stared back in wide-eyed desperation, suddenly remembering who would be having his way with her in just two nights time.  “I’m sorry, Petyr.  I know you’re only trying to help me.”  

“Good.”  Petyr allowed a small self-satisfied smile to creep onto his face, using it to reassure her, even if its presence meant the opposite.  “Now,” he kissed her forehead gently, “my sweetling.”  He felt an energy charge through his arms as he waited to see if she caught his possessive addition to the term of endearment he bestowed upon her.  She looked down at the mug she’d been holding as Petyr took it out of her hands and continued, “Go lay down on the bed.”  

She blinked back at him, clearly shocked by his blunt direction, so comfortably given.  Her hesitation was only momentary before she nodded her head in acquiescence.  She almost tripped on the gown that draped so loosely over her, hanging from the sleeves she had still yet to divest herself of.  Petyr held back a sigh at how uncoordinated her seduction was.  Though, he reasoned that she was not necessarily aware of the role she played in his brain’s production. 

She would not be experienced enough to know how to slink out of her clothing, and prop herself on the bed suggestively.  She lacked the practice to know what would be enticing and what movements needed to be smooth and deliberate.  All of which were exactly the same reasons why Petyr didn’t usually prefer virgins: tight gashes attached to limp-limbs.  Usually not worth the investment, though this was Cat’s daughter, and this self-made man from the Fingers would gladly steal anything he could from the Tully line.  After all, they’d happily taken everything from him.  

He would ruin the girl over and over, until he’d decided he was tired of her, leaving her wet and used for her Lannister groom.  All the while, he’d watch her snivel and quiver, apologizing for what little instincts she had alerting her to foul play.  His calm voice, and soft eyes would tell her to ignore the nagging feeling that he was not who he would have her believe.

She startled when Petyr reached for her arm, his smile kind as he tugged the sleeves off of her arms, finally allowing the gown to fall to the floor and pool around her feet.  He held his hand out for her to take and he guided her step over the fabric, using his other hand to gesture her toward the bed.  She smiled, her anxiety forcing her to avoid his gaze, instead staring down at the bed as she climbed into it.  

As he had suspected, she lay flat as a board, legs clamped shut, and arms pinned to her sides.  He didn’t bother to take his shoes off or attempt to remove any layer of clothing, knowing that any such gesture would reveal to her his own desire.  Sansa had believed that a man’s pleasure was something to endure, and it was too early in the game to introduce that aspect of sex.  His movements were careful as he followed her, gently laying himself next to her.  His hands kept to himself as he looked into her sparkling eyes and spoke tenderly, “We will go at your pace, Sansa.  You will take the lead.”  

She was a nervous, trembling thing beside him as she all but cried, “I can’t!”  

“Yes, you can.”  Petyr kissed her forehead, the top of her nose, over to her cheek bone, and then the corner of her mouth before he said, “Tell me what you are comfortable with.”  

For once, he was thankful for the many layers of fabric separating them as he grew inside his breeches at the idea of sweet Sansa not only letting him defile her, but asking him to.  More than that, telling him exactly how she wanted him to.  His cheek against hers, hid the smirk that formed at thought of how delicious it would all be when he finally released inside her.  He had been waiting to listen to her timid words, only to be surprised by the way she turned her face against his, and captured his lips. 

He smiled into her mouth as she massaged his bottom lip with her tongue.  Petyr was proud of his pupil, finding the perfect way to tell him without uttering a single word.  He wasn’t sure if he should reward her for being so crafty or punish her for not doing as he wanted.  Each time their lips parted to reposition and deepen their kiss, Petyr brought his head back a fraction of an inch.  Each time, Sansa leaned further towards him, chasing his lips.  It was at the wanton way she lost herself in the kiss, willing to reach for it, that made him decide on reward.  

He pulled the string at the top of her shift, peeling back the material to expose her pert breasts as they had been the day before.  She sighed into his mouth, free from the burden of her clothing.  He took the opportunity to cup her, without satin or cotton impeding his touch.  As he kissed her, he opened one eye to look down at how well she filled his hand, her nipples standing at attention for him.  

Deciding to find their foothold from yesterday, Petyr broke from her lips, to trail kisses down her throat.  He glanced over to her hand moving in the open air, uncoordinated, and he spoke into her neck, “It is alright to touch me, Sansa.  You may find it useful.”  

Not willing to wait for a nervous reply, Petyr continued to kiss down her chest, stopping only when he reached her nipple.  He glanced up at her, enjoying the timid look in her eye, before he wrapped his lips around the sensitive flesh.  Her back arched up, reflexively as he swirled his tongue in circles around the hard peak, flicking and sucking it.  

Her hand landed on his shoulder blade, as he released one teet in favor of the other.  The touch was so faint, he may have missed it entirely, if it hadn’t been so foreign to him.  Whores and the lesser ladies of court focused only on his cock in their intimate moments.  At times they would grab handfuls of his ass, dig their nails into his back, or inspect his scar curiously with their fingertips.  None of them  _ held  _ him.  

Unsure of how he felt about this, he decided to intensify things, and began pulling her skirt up, to bare her leg.  Drawing small soothing circles on her knee, his mouth let go of her breast, leaving ample saliva on it to chill in the open air.  His goatee grazed her chest as he asked, “Do you remember how I touched you yesterday?”  

Of course she did.  He only asked to see her agree, she was always most appealing when she was agreeing.  His hand slid to her thigh, gripping and massaging it as he worked his way up.  She bit her lip as she nodded, “Yes, Petyr.”  

“We’re going to do the same thing.”  He watched relief relax her once worried brow before he added the new stipulation, “Except, today, you must not wear these.”  His hand found her small clothes, picking at the material that had shielded her against his invasion before.  

She gasped at the suggestion, her heart beating rapidly under his chin.  Petyr’s cock twitched as he remembered the delightful sounds she made when he pressed his fingers against the barrier of cloth.  He closed his eyes, and licked his lips, as he began tugging the material down.  She had gone rigid again, neither prohibiting or aiding him in his efforts.  Deciding it better to only pull the garment as far down as necessary, Petyr resisted the urge to rip them completely from her body.  There would be a false sense of modesty in letting her reason that the clothing had not been removed entirely.  

He licked his lips, and gazed down at his hand under her shift, moving toward her sex.  The heat and humidity that radiated off of her, warmed his suspended palm, and boasted her readiness.  Her grip on his shoulder tightened and he remembered the nervous girl attached to the cunt he was teasing himself with.  Looking at her wide eyes and wrinkled forehead, Petyr realized he’d gotten what he wanted.  

Even if he never succeeded in taking her maidenhead, though he knew he would, in that moment, he’d won.  Laying next to her in bed, hand up her skirts and hovering over her wet little gash, Sansa Stark, proper northern lady, was allowing him what she did not any other.  He’d fantasized about these compromising positions before, but had never truly imagined one would come about.  And here she was, breasts shamelessly on display, and small clothes out of the way.

As he dropped his hand, feeling the small tuft of damp curls, he covered her mouth with his.  He would mesmerize her with his lips as he dipped his fingers in her.  She sighed into his mouth and he started slow, petting the outside of her, familiarizing her with his presence.  As he felt her start to relax in their kiss, he let his first finger trace her seam more persistently, slowly burrowing in.  His middle finger soon followed, working the wetness around, spreading her slick lips back.  When his fingers found her nub, he swallowed her loud moan in his mouth, and felt her hand grip his shoulder harder for support.  

She writhed under his touch, encouraging his ache to be inside her.  He rubbed his erection against her thigh to ease the building pressure.  She didn’t notice, too consumed by the continuous back and forth motion against her little bundle of nerves.  He pulled from her lips to trail kisses down her neck again, as he moved his fingers down lower, letting his thumb find the rhythm his fingers had.  He pressed around her opening, allowing her to feel the foreign pressure before he proceeded.  

Petyr spoke into her neck as his first finger gently persisted into her opening as it had her slit, “You’re beautiful.”  

She inhaled suddenly as his finger pushed further inside.  Petyr felt a painful throb in the head of his cock as she clenched anxiously around his digit.  It was only the one finger, and he was certain she could have cut off his circulation with her body’s tight grip on him.  He let out a groan of need as he gently pushed against the cushioned flesh within, and captured her nipple in his mouth again.  

Sansa’s hand traveled up the back of his neck, and thread into his hair, holding him to her breast as she arched up into him.  His thumb worked her relentlessly as his middle finger slowly joined his index, pumping in and out of her.  She moaned again and angled her hips towards him, encouraging him to probe deeper.  The reality of Sansa Stark riding his fingers and shoving her breasts in his face, was driving him mad with lust.  His rubbing against her became more vigorous and his sounds more vocal.  

She was so taken with her own pleasure that she would not see what she was unleashing, leaving Petyr to wildly hump her leg like an animal.  Petyr could control himself, though it was under the pretense of a lack of control that he could escalate their activity.  He spread his fingers inside of her, stretching her, preparing her.  He was determined that when the time came for him to fill her, she would not wince in pain.  Shame, perhaps.  But not injury.  He added more pressure to her nub to offset the work of his fingers inside and felt the muscles of her body tighten beside him.  He spoke into her breast, offering her praise, “You’re doing marvelously.”  Her breath caught as he massaged her, and continued to offer praise, “I’m so proud of you, sweetling.”  

She cried out in pleasure, the note she hit so virginal, it tickled his eardrums and sent shivers all over his body.  Petyr slowed his motion, keeping his place inside her, feeling the little squeezes that came in waves around his fingers.  Lacking any more self-control, her body melted back into the bed and she worked to catch her breath.  She looked exquisite, all riled and exhausted, hair splayed out against the pillows and Petyr knew he had to act fast if he was going to get what he wanted.  

He quickly pulled from her, speaking abruptly, “I should go.”

“What?”  She picked her head up, taken off guard by his sudden flight from her side.  “Why?  Do you have to leave so soon?”  

Petyr forced his face to look pained, hiding the amusement of this dramatic display as he explained, “I must.  I have to...take care of something.”

Sansa sat up quickly, wavering a little, clearly light headed.  “No!”  

He cocked his head at her, as if to question, though he knew well why she wanted to keep him.  The look was meant to remind her that she had lost her composure, though for him it only masked the joy he felt in recognizing how he affected her.

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment and she looked down at the mattress, her voice shrinking, “I only meant, if there’s anything I may help with, I should very much like to be of assistance to you.”  

Petyr closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nostrils.  This was it.  This was his chance to push things even further.  He knew he must tread carefully.  He wrinkled his brow, understanding that small adjustment in his expression would add a sense of pain and turmoil to the pose.  Ladies like Sansa would be willing to dirty their skirts to aid the wounded animal at their feet.  “It’s not for a lady such as yourself to be burdened with.”  

Her head shot up, quick to assuage any concern he may have over straining her, “Please, Petyr.  What is it?”

He rose from the bed, shaking his head, “No, sweetling, I couldn’t.”  

“Yes, please, Petyr!”  Sansa jumped from the bed, her shift left open as she caught his arm.  

Oh, gods, this was delicious.  He fought to stay still, under her small grip, wanting to whirl around and capture her, snatching and grabbing everything within reach.  He pursed his lips, looking down at his boots, reminding himself that this goal would only be achieved if he was the tortured soul she would need him to be.  “Sansa, I…”  He shook his head, as if he could not finish, as if he didn’t want to.  Though,  _ finish _ was all he wanted.

Her dainty hand slid to his shoulder, gently caressing it.  Her voice was soft as she cooed to him, “Whatever it is, you can tell me, Petyr.  Let me be your true friend.”  

His cock almost burst through his pants and his fingernails dug into his palms as he worked to control himself.  Her use of  _ true friend _ , sent him careening over the edge of reason and only time and silence would help him regain his footing.  He closed his eyes, breathing in and out, repressing his need to ravage.  His voice was a hoarse whisper as he admitted, “I did not realize how affected I would be, by our time together.”  

Sansa did not appear to react, still running her palm over his shoulder blades.  “I do not understand, Petyr.”  

He furrowed his brow, refusing to open his eyes as he all but wailed, “I am still a  _ man _ , Sansa!”

Her voice was small as she spoke of how little she understood, “Why is that a concern?”  

Petyr finally opened his eyes, sighing in exasperation for her, and looked down at her open shift as he said, “Assisting you in this preparation, has created a need in me.  As much as I do not wish it, loathe it even, my body responds to yours.”  

Sansa’s eyes widened in shock, and swallowed the excess saliva in her mouth, a nervous gulp.  He stared back her, daring her to respond to him, begging her to.  After an elongated silence, he turned away and took a step forward to leave.  

Her grip tightened, refusing him escape as she spoke barely above a whisper, “I want to help.”  

He stared down at her fingers on his sleeve, “Do you?  Have you ever seen a man before?”  

Sansa’s eyes dropped to the ground as she admitted, “No.”  As Petyr considered how he would manipulate the conversation further, she surprised him by adding, “But I do know how they are made to look.  And I’ve heard of how they manage themselves.”  

Had she?  That was unexpected, to be sure.  Petyr looked away to hide the smile that grew, seeing the potential in her determination to be of use.  He wanted to know how she would know such things, but considering the amount of time spent with Lady Margaery, he could guess.  He gently removed her hand from his arm, and maintained eye contact with her as he guided it to the front of his tunic.  

Her chest heaved, and her eyes widened, but she did not protest.  Slowly, he pulled back one side of the garment, and placed her palm over the bulge in his breeches.  Petyr released his grip on her hand, feeling the blood rush as he fully appreciated the feel of her innocent hands cupping his erection.

Her breathing deepened, and a blush spread over her chest as she learned what a man’s need felt like.  As if against her will, her fingers twitched over him, offering the slightest of caresses that forced a shiver from him.  His breathing deepened and he knew he would not last long in whatever sinful act transpired.  “If it is too much to ask, I understand.”  

She blinked slowly and caught her bottom lip with her teeth.  She was clearly at an impasse, trying to decide between being the chaste northern lady she was born and the true friend she was becoming, dutifully enduring.  She shook her head at him, unable to speak aloud what she decided to do.  Petyr felt his cock tingle at her silent and reluctant willingness.  His voice was low as he instructed, “Untie the laces, and touch me.”  

Sansa slowly pulled her hand from him, never taking her eyes off of his as she felt for the top of his laces, and began to tug at them.  Petyr would have thought that laces were universal, though with the way in which she fumbled over his, he began to think perhaps not.  When finally free, her small hand reached into his pants, pushing against the full mat of dark pubic hair.  Her fingertips gently grazing the skin of his manhood.  His eyes closed at the sensation and she whispered, “ _ Soft. _ ”  

He knew she meant the texture of the skin, not the cock itself, as he was sure he could drill through stone with how hard he’d grown.  “Mm,” he agreed with her.  And then he instructed, “Wrap your hand around it, sweetling.”  

She nodded and slid her grip around him, holding the full weight of him, offering a nervous smile.  He smiled back, “You’re doing marvelously, Sansa.”  The throbbing begged him to keep going as he continued, “Now pull towards yourself, and then push back towards me.”  

“Like this?”  She pulled her grip back, further than was comfortable and he winced a little.  

Petyr wrapped his hand around hers, showing her what he meant.  When it appeared as though she was moving properly on her own, he let go and let himself feel her pleasure him.  Her eyes were large and her smile so hopeful as she tugged at his cock, never once looking down.  The sensation was building already and Petyr could kill himself for being so affected by this one girl.  He always prided himself in his self-control.  She was the virgin after all, and here he was about hit his peak before he had even really started to ascend it.  

His heart raced and his hips started to move against her hand, driven to meet his carnal need.  His face tightened as he grew close and his eyes clenched shut in his focus.  He jumped a little when he felt Sansa’s dainty lips capture his, and slide her tongue past them.  That additional point of contact sent him into bliss as he spilled streams of seed down over her knuckles. 

At the feel of the hot liquid oozing down the back of her hand, she looked down, gasping at the wreckage of a veiny red cock and the sticky white liquid it spewed all over her once pure hands.  She loosened her grip to release him, but his hand caught her wrist and held her there as he pulsated the rest of his orgasm.  He whispered, “Do you feel that?  How it moves?”  

Her mouth was open, staring down at him, her eyes as big as saucers as she nodded her head.  He smiled through his panting, “That is your affect on a man.  Your body does this.”  

“I’m so sorry, Petyr!”  She almost wailed, not understanding the mess she was covered in was something men consistently wanted.  

He knew that by adding a sense of blame, she would feel indebted to him further.  People in debt were always much more willing to exceed their limits, and Petyr couldn’t wait to find hers and cross them.  He shook his head, “It’s alright, sweetling.  We’ll always take care of each other.  Won’t we?”  

She nodded her head in agreement, though he was sure she didn’t understand what she was agreeing to.  Rather than belabor the point, he pulled a handkerchief that he had brought for this very reason, out of his pocket and lifted her hand.  If it had been anyone else he would have handed the cloth to them to clean themselves, but some tenderness after such brutal honesty was the better play.  

Sansa remained silent as he wiped himself from her, and kept her hand in his as he wiped his cock and set it back inside his breeches.  He didn’t bother lacing them, feeling he should leave immediately to let her sit with what had happened.  The side of the tunic fall back into place, and he made to offer the back of her hand a parting kiss.  He brought his lips to the ring he gave her, swiping the sapphire subtly with his tongue, tasting the flavor of their intimacy. 

When he picked his head up, he offered her a warm smile and reminded her, “I will look for this at court tomorrow.”  

“Petyr?”  She caught his arm again as he began to leave.  He cocked an eyebrow at her, offering a quizzical look.  Her bottom lip quivered as she asked, “Did I do well?”  

“I told you, you did.”  Petyr felt mildly irritated at her apparent need to be praised.  

She nervously bit her lip as she shook her head, “No.  Yes.  I meant, with you.  Did I do well  _ with you _ ?” 

His eyes lit up in excitement.  Her infatuation for him created a desire to please him.  He felt no need to repress his grin and flashed it proudly as he said, “As only a true friend could, sweetling.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg it's just like Reese Witherspoon on a rollercoaster with Mark Wahlberg!


	5. Slip of the Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4

Petyr stared ahead at the nightstand, holding the empty cup of moon tea and his mockingbird pin, as they laid side by side on her downy soft bed.  When he arrived on this day, the day before her wedding, she instantly began stripping out of her gown.  Though he detected a slight tremble in her, it may be attributed to more than simply anxiousness, as it could now possibly even be excitement.  There was no preamble today as there had been in all the times before.  She merely met him as he approached and accepted his kiss, amplifying the passion in it with her own.  It was not the response she was raised to give, one of a perfect chaste noble lady.  It was instead more liberal, more _ familiar. _

What was she growing so familiar with?  Him?  The way he touched her?  What he expected from her?  Or was it herself?  What her body felt?  What it wanted?  Or was it both?  All?  Everything.  Sansa Stark, was born and bred to be the picture of purity until she was wed, and then she would become the essence of obedience to whatever man commanded her.  There was no necessity, in either role, for her to know any of the things she may be so familiar with now.  There was no room in the expectations she must meet for her to understand how her body affected a man’s and how a man responded to hers.  In just a few days together, Petyr was changing everything about her.  He wasn’t just stealing her maidenhead to add it to the Tully stack, he was filching her future.

And didn’t it just feel so perfectly criminal.  Whenever he decided he was finished with her, she would be released into the world, completely unlike she was before.  He couldn’t wonder what was in store for her after he left, though felt confident that he’d be able to use their developing history to his advantage later if he desired.  After all, it had been the way with Lysa, why not another with gullible Tully blood reddening her hair?     

After his expressed need the day before, Sansa was much more comfortable with him disrobing--to a point, and lying in bed with her.  She remained in her shift, though with the way Petyr had positioned it, she may as well have been bare.  He had lost his boots and tunic, wearing only his breeches and his shirt.  

The apt pupil beside him had been learning how to reciprocate his affections, stoking the flames of the fire that raged within.  She kissed and nibbled his neck as he smelled her clean hair and ran his hand up her thigh.  A couple of times, Petyr offered her a small moan of encouragement to see what she might do with it.  Would she shy away from the need she was building in him?  Or would she continue on, willing to sate him as she had the day before?  He’d only want more.  

Her lips had ventured further down his neck, delicate fingers picking at the ties on his shirt, allowing his chest hair to peek out.  Petyr let her explore, knowing what she would find.  To her credit, she only stalled momentarily when she saw it, then acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary.  Her lips, kissing the fortified flesh of his scar, felt as if a hot iron seared into him, marking him.  No.  That mark wasn’t for her, not hers to claim, or to love.  What was she playing at?  He decided to call attention to what she was willfully ignoring and though he felt harder, he made his voice softer, “Does it bother you?”  

She pulled her lips from him, lifting her head to look him in the eye, “Only that you were hurt.”  

How noxiously saccharine of her; he could just eat her up.  Petyr fantasized about burying his face between her legs to lick the sweet syrup that dripped there, and then closed his eyes and inhaled.  He controlled himself from his true intentions, and forced away the lust to offer only lament, “There is strength in a scar.  It compels you to remember, even when all you want, is to forget.”

“My mother.”  Sansa curled her arms and legs into herself as she stared down at the bed linens.  It was no secret among the kingdoms of Petyr’s relationship with Catelyn Stark, or how he became marred for life.  It made sense that the tale of a gallant knight protecting his lady from a doting boy would find the ear of a silly girl with poems of birds in her head.  Good.  Let her know.  Let her feel the swirl of emotions that anyone invested might.  It was always through the chaos--emotional or otherwise, that Petyr prevailed, anyway.  Sansa’s voice grew so small as she acknowledged, “You loved my mother.”  

“Indeed, I did.”  Petyr made a show of sighing, knowing that this honest emotional exposure would only increase her willingness to bare herself to him as well.  He reached down, lifting Sansa’s chin to face him, “And it is because of that love, that I agreed to aid you.”  He closed his eyes and brushed his lips over hers, “And it is because of this time together that our friendship has grown so  _ intimate. _ ”  

Sansa accepted his kiss, sliding her hand to his chest, gripping him.  As their tongues rolled, his hand moved to her ass, pulling her towards him.  She gasped in his mouth at the attention, and raised her leg to rest over his, leveraging herself closer.  He knew his words coupled with his touch would return her focus.  Her maiden crush wouldn’t allow him to go without, instantly taking responsibility for his pleasure.  

It was at her enthusiasm that Petyr pulled her shift up and let his hand find the bare flesh of her rounded ass.  At her moan of appreciation, he began to roll onto his back, bringing her with him.  At first, she was uncoordinated, breaking from his lips, unsure of his motion.  He smiled up at her furrowed brow as he said, “Sit on me, as you would a horse.” 

She slowly slid on top of him, certainly experiencing the act of straddling a man for the first time.  With him moving and breathing beneath her, she had difficulty maintaining her balance and he caught her hands to steady her.  Her eyes were warm as she looked down at him, and her smile grew.  Petyr brought her ringed hand to his lips and kissed the sapphire on the true silver setting before he said, “I had begun to wonder if you would wear this at all today.”  

Sansa had waited until the last possible moment to put the ring on her finger, risking the chance that he or his spies may not have seen her don it at all.  It was a contrast from the constant way she wore it, vigilantly displaying it her hand motions as the hour drew near for them to join.  The behavior was out of the normalcy they were establishing, and he wasn’t entirely certain that perhaps she may not be having second thoughts.  

She tried to pull from his grasp.  The attempt was weak and insecure, not wanting to be impolite in rejecting him, but clearly wanting her appendage back all the same.  Petyr firmed his grip and offered a supportive smile as he soothed, “ _ Sansa _ , tell me.”  

First she sighed and then she looked up at the ceiling, as if a petulant child, caught stealing the lemon cakes she favored.  “I was bathing.”  

He bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from reacting to the mental image of her naked in soapy water, scrubbing away the lecherous trail his lips and fingers blazed across her skin.  Her voice interrupted his thoughts, “And when I had finished, I could not find it.”

Petyr offered her a look of mild beratement, holding her in place.  “But, you found it?”  

“Yes.”  She nodded proudly, shifting over his erection, not realizing how easily he could impale her in this position.  He knew.  Gods, did he know.  He brought her ringed hand back to his lips, pressing a kiss to the silver and sapphire before he placed both of her palms flat on his chest.  The change in position hunched her over, and brought her face down closer to his.

Once he released her hands, he moved to grip her hips, and pressed himself up against her, letting her feel the full imposition of his solid growth.  She swallowed as she looked down, allowing him to maneuver her hips.  The motion he set, allowed her nub to press upon the ties of his breeches at a regular rate.  He softened his voice, becoming the true friend, vulnerable in the danger of their activities.  “You would be wise not to lose that again.  If anyone were to find out…if they were to question you...”  

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”  Sansa wrinkled her brow in consternation.  

Petyr slid one hand from her hip, down to the front of her, under the bunched up material of her shift.  Her heat rolled in waves through the short hair, he’d still yet to see, that tickled the back of his knuckles.  Her breath caught as they locked eyes, and the back of his hand pet where her legs met.  He licked his lips, as he turned his hand and dipped his first few fingers into hers, letting his digits slide around the slippery flesh, looking for her pearl.  She adjusted herself, aiding his first finger to find her, and shuddered at the resulting contact.

His smug smirk was kept secret by her own reflex to clench her eyes shut at the pleasure of his touch.  He rubbed her back and forth, adding pressure from time to time, listening to the sounds she made for guidance.  As she grew close, he slid his middle finger down to her opening and entered her.  The moan she emitted confirmed her desperate need to be penetrated, and Petyr continued to rub his erection into the back of his hand under her, aching to be thrust within her.  

His other hand stayed on her hip, guiding it on his one finger, training her movements.  She would learn, even now, how he preferred her ride him.  All of her teaching would be tailored specifically to him, the self-made man with so many skills to share. 

He probed inside, feeling for the spongy skin, that would set off a thousand fire-tipped arrows behind her eyes.  When he found it, she bucked him powerfully as she whimpered, and he took the opportunity to slide his first finger in to meet his middle.  His thumb took over the work of polishing her pearl while he stretched her insides.  

Sansa’s motions became desperate as she repeatedly crashed down on him, chasing the release she was growing expectant of.  Petyr watched the open neck of her shift slide down her shoulder, exposing one teet, hardened with her industry.  What had started as pleasurable massaging, now was painful scraping at his throbbing cock, embedded against the threads of his breeches.  

His hips lifted her up, knocking her off balance until she started to fall over.  Petyr moved swiftly out from under her, never releasing his grip from either her hip or her womanhood.  Sansa fell back against the bed, hair spread out across the pillows behind her, and sweat forming on her brow as she mewled.  

She was a vision of beauty, completely beholden to his touch, as his hand left her hip and captured the breast that had escaped her clothing.  The fingers on one hand pressed and stretched, while the fingers on the other hand rolled and plucked.  She gasped, grabbing handfuls of linen on either side of her, “ _ Petyr. _ ”

It was in that moment, that he again acknowledged his need to taste her.  It had been a part of the plan all along, though he had not yet been certain when he would make it a reality.  His palm left her breast and smoothed down over her belly, grabbing the hem of her shift, and pushing it up to her rest on her naval.  The most delectable thatch of red curls shimmered in the wetness that she created and he encouraged, in the afternoon light.  His mouth watered as he watched his glistening fingers invade her.  When he glanced up, she was staring down at him, face flushed.  

He would give her something to watch.  He nudged her legs apart and lowered himself to hover his face between them.  Petyr exhaled over her sex and she shivered at the sensation.  As he lowered his lips, her muscles tightened and she all but shrieked, “What are you doing?!”  

Petyr turned, and smiled into her thigh.  Of course she would have no notion of what he was about to do, or how it would affect her.  He purred, “I’m going to kiss and lick you, where I’ve been touching you.”  

Her pulse beat fast against his cheek as she worried, “Is that proper?”

He stifled a laugh.  What was proper about any of this?  The fact that she would ask, only reminded him how much further she had to go in her journey.  He forced a serious look to his face as he answered, “In this, it is.”  

Keeping his eyes on hers, he began to lower his face again.  Petyr stuck his tongue out and made the slightest contact with her folds.  She jumped at the foreign sensation, breaking eye contact as she gasped.  Gods, was she delicious.  He had been so focused on watching that he had almost forgotten to taste her sweet nectar.  Petyr had served many women with his tongue before, finding it a valuable skill to have, as well as taking his own pleasure in his own proficiency.  He had learned that each woman, though common in overall taste, had her own flavor.  Some had a tang, others some sour, others still a bit of a zest.  All palatable enough to urge the entirely male beast within.  

Sansa was different.  Her musk alone so decidedly separate from any other he’d ever smelled.  He had gotten small previews of it from the aftermath he’d sniffed and licked off his fingers.  Though, it paled in comparison to pulling directly from the source, hot and pulsing for him.  Petyr inhaled her unique aroma, noting how it carried an undercurrent of the spicy ginger it was colored with, and he bucked involuntarily into the mattress.  

Her body moved, reaching up and out in a silent prayer for stability under his persistent lapping.  Her legs moved, raising her knees, and closing in on his head.  Petyr’s free hand came to rest against her thigh, reminding her not to squeeze and crush him.  Panting her revelry, her back arched up, too affected to recline.  Having lost all modesty in the sensation, her neck stretched, and she threw her head back as she begged for release.

Petyr was so lost in the act of nursing her nub that he almost forgot to spread his fingers inside of her, stretching her further.  It was then that her delicate hand reached down, no longer timid, as it gripped handfuls of his hair.  She held him in place, as he washed over her most tender places.  He admired the power of such indulgences, giving courage to even the most timid.  

It was not long before her little hips lifted frantically into his mouth, and she was audibly sucking in air and whimpering through the orgasm that massaged his fingers.  Petyr rubbed into the mattress again as he lifted his head to watch her come undone.  He pumped his fingers faster into her, knowing the desperate way her body begged to be fucked, even if it didn’t yet know it. 

Her foot slid out from under her and she lost the leverage she had been using to gyrate her bliss.  When Petyr felt her walls contract less and less, and the pulse that beat in his hand slow, he gradually pulled away from her.  She raised herself up on her elbows, and bit her lip as she looked down at him, still stationed between her legs.  The sight of her, a sweaty red-faced mess, biting her lip at him, provoked him to push her.  

He pushed up from the bed, quickly seeking his boots, as he tossed over his shoulder, “I should go now.”

“No!”  Sansa worked to sit up, her limbs still so obviously gelatinous.  “Petyr, please wait.”  

He had to make this move carefully, knowing he must always be reluctant.  Fellow victims of urges were hesitant.  He could not yet be the man who so willingly gave in.  He slid his feet into his boots as he shook his head, “No, sweetling.  I mustn’t burden you as I did before.”

Sansa scooted to the edge of the bed and caught him, “No, Petyr.  I understand, now.”  

He thought she might.  He let his hand drift to his erection, reminding her of its presence when he offered her doubt, “And what is it you understand?”  

“That helping me,” She moved to stand beside him, “elicits your own need for assistance.  I understand that, Petyr.  I want to help you.  As I did yesterday.” 

He went to walk past her, to gather his tunic in haste as he said, “Best that we not.”  

She stood in front of him, preventing him from reaching for his pin off of the nightstand.  Her shift still hung open as her hands went to his forearms, holding him still so that she could speak, “Please, Petyr.  Let me care for you as a true friend.  Don’t you remember, you said we’d always take care of each other?”  

He sighed and made a show of hanging his head, “It is wrong of me to take pleasure from you, Sansa.  You’ve come to me for assistance, and regretfully my own needs surface.”  

She shook her head, “Shh, Petyr.  No.  It’s alright.  Let me.”  Her hand reached down, cupping him through the material of his breeches.  He allowed himself to shiver, visibly weakening his resolve.  There was no need to make her beg as she was, but Petyr found it only enhanced the excitement.  Her fingers did not tremble or shake as she stared him directly in the eye and pulled at his laces.  He breathed, “ _ Sansa _ .” 

The smallest of smiles crept on her face as she proudly remarked, “You told me that I had done well yesterday.  Let me do well for you again.  You’ve done so much for me.”  

Her hand reached in, and it pulled his cock out into the open air.  Instantly, he was caught in her firm and attentive grip, being worked back and forth.  It was as it had been the day before, but with more zeal, as Sansa felt no fear in this act, now.  He knew he wouldn’t last in her grasp if he let her continue, but he lacked the will to stop her.  

Petyr wanted more.  He’d already felt her hand, and if couldn’t yet take her cunni, he would have her mouth.  Making a scene of his pleasure, Petyr closed his eyes and acted to catch his breath, before he started to stagger backwards, out of her hand.  He slowly landed back on the bed, sitting on it’s edge.  He offered her a nervous half-hearted smile as she moved between his legs and towered over him.  “It felt too remarkable to stand.”  

Sansa smiled as she leaned down to kiss the top of his head.  He smirked to himself as he wondered if a friend would offer such consolation.  With her leaning, it was easy to grip her arms and hips to guide her to kneeling in front of him.  He reasoned,  “So you don’t hurt your back when you reach for me.”  She smiled and nodded her head in agreement, seeming to accept his excuse.    

She was in position, right where she needed to be, and Petyr now just had to think of what he would say to achieve her compliance.  He pulled from her obvious fear of Tyrion.  As her hand worked up and down, she looked up him smiling, proudly.  He brought his hand to her cheek, stroking it with his thumb as he asked, “Did you enjoy what I did for you today?”  

She nodded, wide-eyed, “Yes, Petyr.”  

“Mm, excellent.”  Petyr breathed in her tight grip.  “I want you to be ready, sweetling.”  He then felt the mischief tickle under his skin as he added, “And I know that your betrothed will not offer you all the attention needed as I have.” 

She looked alarmed as the subject moved to her intended husband.  Petyr’s loose grip on her chin, tugged her face closer to the cock in front of her.  His words were made to be warm as he added, “He lacks the capacity to do for  _ each other _ the way we can.”  

After a moment Sansa’s voice grew timid, “Petyr?”

Feeling her grip work him, and trying to fight and ignore the building sensation, he bit the inside of his cheek, hard.  Through a touch of pain, he answered, “Yes?”  

She averted her gaze, staring straight ahead at his cock as she asked, “Can a woman put her mouth on a man, as you did me?”

Yes, please.  Petyr controlled himself, not allowing his face to give way to his delight as he answered her, “Yes.  Men find it very pleasing.”

Sansa licked her lips at the suggestion, “I could take you in my mouth, Petyr.”  

He felt himself almost jumping over the edge of reason at her words.  They being what nocturnal emissions were made of.  He rubbed her chin with his thumb as he warned her, “You remember the last time you relieved me.  The same thing will happen.”  

She paused, looking puzzled.  He focused on his words to avoid reacting to the motion of her hand, “I will spill seed in your mouth instead of on your hand.”  

Her eyes grew wide and she blinked a couple of times, “What do ladies do when that happens?”  

Spit or swallow.  But Petyr always preferred the later, as it was less messy, and it was gratifying knowing that the woman carried what he left in them, regardless of the point of deposit.  He would not give her the choice, “You will have to drink it down, sweetling.”  

Her gulp was audible before she cleared her throat, silently deciding as she stared at the veiny red cock in front of her.  Petyr said nothing, simply allowing a mild response of pleasure to be shared.  He almost hadn’t heard her, so quiet as she said, “Alright, Petyr.”  

Before he could respond, she wrapped her lips around the head of his arousal and he hissed in response to the shock of it.  The all consuming throb inside her tiny little mouth, diminished all of his other senses, causing Petyr to forget the world around him as he groaned reflexively.  She never took her hand off of him, working the base, knowing her mouth could not reach that far, as she licked and sucked what fit beyond her lips.  

It was uncoordinated and frustratingly slow, nowhere near as perfected and certain as Olyvar’s work.  Though, the sheer fact that it was Sansa Stark’s mouth wrapped around Petyr’s cock, added to the pleasure it brought.  It was as if the corruption involved alone was enough to balance out the amateur attempt that on any given day, Petyr wouldn’t have bothered with.   He let his hand drift into her hair, gently guiding her head back and forth, getting the friction he needed.  He reminded himself to take it slow, not allow himself to fuck her mouth as he had wanted to.  Forcing her would not do.  He had gotten her this far, a little more patience and he would be the first to plunge himself inside her.  

He heard her moan and felt her exhale hot from her nostrils on his shaft as she bobbed her head up and down on him, and his body sang.  His breath caught and his heart pounded in his chest as he felt suspended in ecstasy.  A good man would have warned her that he was about to cum, but whatever kind of man Petyr was, good had not been it for a long time.  He took great joy in watching her eyes bulge as she quickly gulped back the seed that painted the insides of her mouth.  It was difficult not to chuckle in the natural high of release, especially with one as exquisite as this had been.  When he was finished and gone soft, Sansa took her mouth off of him, looking up with an unreadable expression.  

Petyr ran his fingers through her hair affectionately as he answered the question she didn’t ask, with a lie, “I was unable to offer any warning, sweetling.  You did so well, that it came upon me fast.  There was no way of knowing.”  

Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks dimpled in pride, “Really Petyr?”  

He was already putting himself back in his breeches, but paused to look back at her, “Of course, Sansa.”  As he rose to get his mockingbird pin off the nightstand.  He decided to reinforce her use of the ring by reminding her of her fear, “Your betrothed will surely enjoy it when you offer it to him.”  

A scowl formed on her face as she shook her head, “I would never offer to do that to him.”  

Petyr couldn’t resist as he highlighted the point, “Sweetling, I am touched.  That you would keep that just for  _ us. _ ”

Her face flushed at the implication of the last word.  Petyr fastened his pin over the tunic he had thrown on as he was speaking and added, “It makes it all the more extraordinary.”  

This was supposed to be a process, a procedure that could be followed by anyone with anyone else.  And yet, Petyr was slowly interjecting the idea that emotions were attached.  Sansa was the heartsick lady with the romanticized infatuation, and Petyr had been capitalizing on that.  How else would the silver-tongued snake convince Sansa to wrap her lips around his cock and swallow him back.  He raised her hand for a goodbye kiss, insisting one more time, “Do not lose this.”  He licked his lips suggestively as he added, “Lest we lose these moments together.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has increased to 7 chapters. I am a terrible person who had a truly wicked idea pop into her head, and now an epilogue is unavoidable.
> 
> Also, major thanks are in order to both GreedIsGreen and expected_aberrance for beta-ing this chapter. Greed's awesome about reading over all the chapters for this that I post (least she can do after assigning me this punishment-prompt, just sayin'), but it was nice to have Expected's eyes on it this time too. Much luv to these ladies!!!


	6. Where the Heart Beats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: The Wedding Day

Wedding days were a bustle of final hour arrangements, handmaidens rushing in and out of ladies’ chambers, carrying the tools and instruments necessary in constructing the perfect bride.  Petyr had anticipated this increased activity when he explained to Sansa that they would meet earlier than their usual time, much earlier.  They would complete their own preparations in the morning before the world around them woke and delivered her to the husband she’d been promised to, however _short_ he fell of her expectations.  

For a brief time, Petyr had considered that it may be more prudent to take her maidenhead prior to the wedding day, understanding that it would be cutting it close.  However there was something truly wicked in taking Sansa on the exact day she was to be delivered to another, seed dripping down her thigh as she accepted the Lannister cloak.

Petyr felt confident that he could slip into her chamber stealthily, manipulate her quickly, and then fuck her repeatedly.  But as their time together continued, more and more, he wanted to take his time with her, fully experience her.  As a child, boys would run down the docks and thrust a foot in water, simply to say they went swimming rather than completing their lessons.  Petyr had followed suit for a while before deciding that if he was going to face his tutor’s wrath for swimming instead of learning, he would feel the cool water cradle and refresh him.  He would close his eyes as the small waves of the water lapped at his neck and behind his ears.  Doing something simply to say he did it would no longer suffice for Petyr Baelish.  Sansa would be more than a vague memory boasting his claim on another Tully maidenhead to add to the stack.

It was not uncommon for young girls of four and ten to remain in their chambers as if asleep on their wedding day.  A bout of nerves easily concealed as oversleeping.  Petyr counted on this when he told Sansa that he would visit her when the sun rose in the morning.  He had not slept the night before with excitement and wondered if she would be restless as well, for more than just fear of the imp, but instead anticipation of Petyr’s touch.  She had appeared more enthusiastic lately.  Petyr snickered to himself at the effect his touch had on the girl’s mood.

When he arrived at her chamber, she was laying in bed, awake, as expected.  He stepped through her large full-length window, a cup of moon tea in hand, and a reassuring smile on his face.  Sansa sat up without pause, “Petyr.”  

It was pleasing that she would react so immediately to his presence.  He extended the cup of moon tea, a glimmer in his eye as he watched her take it quickly.  She gulped it down, expecting it to be the magical concoction meant only to aid her delicate skin in softening and stretching.  Petyr perched on the side of her bed as she drank, eying her in the thinnest of night rails, the dark circles of her nipples visible through the gauzy material.  The urge to peel back the covers to see if the same darkness of her womanhood would show through as well, was sated when Sansa herself slid out from under the blankets.  

She set the empty mug on the end table and turned quickly to reach for Petyr’s signature mockingbird pin.  The speed at which she moved to undress him was both flattering and an annoyance, as he had decided their activity would not be rushed.  He caught her arm mid-air and furrowed his brow in curiosity as she stared surprised back at him.  He spoke first, “We need not hurry, sweetling.”

She nodded slowly, lowering her hand as she looked down at the mattress in rosey-cheeked embarrassment.  Petyr reached for her face, tilting her to look at him.  She blinked as the breath caught in her throat.  He made his voice smooth as he spoke, “Isn’t it better when we take our time?”  

Sansa gulped and held the forearm of the hand that gripped her.  She closed her eyes and nodded again, exhaling the words, “Yes, Pet--”

He cut her off, never more hungry to taste her eager lips.  Fingers laced in each other’s scalp, him leaning into her and her sidling up to him, both closing in.  He dropped one hand down and clutched her to him.  She groaned at the possessive grab and slid into his lap, letting her long legs fold on either side of his thighs, her heat settling above him.  He pulled his lips from hers to inspect the transparent nature of her gown once again, as she traced his earlobe and down his neck with kisses.  Where the familiarity irritated him the day before, he now found it helpful in expediting the progression of things.  He had wanted to take his time, but did not want it all wasted on regaining ground he’d already won.  

Petyr had crafted a masterful plan to convince Sansa to allow him entrance to her most sacred of place, and had been considering the time to engage it, as she tugged at his tunic.  She pulled at the neck of his shirt, slowly divesting him of his clothing and exposing the top of his scar.  When he felt her lips on it, his hands dropped down to her ass, cupping it and pulling it further into his lap.  The move was no longer too bold compared to her own daring motions.  It was all happening much faster than he had imagined when he had pictured this moment in his mind countless times, and the experience in him told himself not to trust it, take back the reins.  However, the beast that stirred beneath the surface told him to accept the good fortune and ride the waves of her audacity until he could find safe harbor between her legs.

When Petyr brought her flush to him, a hand traveling under her rail to palm the naked flesh of her backside, Sansa groaned into the marked skin beneath her lips.  He felt her hot breath as she squirmed in his lap, unable to get closer and whined into him, “Please.  Touch me, Petyr.”

Though his hands overflowed with her perfectly rounded rump, he did not miss her meaning and happily obliged, sliding his fingers down further.  He massaged around, teasing her entrance, stifling a laugh as she lunged forward, capturing his mouth with hers.  She was spirited in her advances for a woman about to be married.  Something was amiss.  As much as Petyr would relish allowing his cock full reign of the situation, the head atop his shoulders took over.  

Keeping one hand at her opening, he brought the other up to the back of her head, burrowing his fingers in her great red mane of hair.  Petyr tightened his grip, knowing there would be a slight painful pulling at various strands of hair.  As if she didn’t feel what he knew she must, she continued to devour his mouth, confirming that something was not right.  Petyr opened his eyes and glanced around the room; she was too different, too off.  He knew it was probably the essence of paranoia, but for a moment he wondered if she had set him up.  Was someone else there?  Waiting to catch Littlefinger, well past his _little-finger_ in the Lannister’s intended?  Tyrion would only mind as much as he’d be slighted.  He had no true feelings for the girl, removing any threat that Tyrion may be passionate about Petyr’s trespass.  Though an offense against a Lannister was a crime nonetheless.  Petyr had spent enough time attending to that family to know that even if Tyrion’s response was tame, which he couldn’t be certain it would be, Tywin’s would not be.

The way with which the perfect chaste noble woman from the north suddenly pursued him, Petyr entertained the idea that someone may be watching.  Had the timid girl he’d been grooming to whore herself to him, actually betrayed him?  Petyr inhaled, as she sucked on his bottom lip and decided, if he was caught, he would spend his time in the cells with the scent of her on his fingers.  The two digits that had been circling the rim of her heat, sank in without warning.  With their chest pressed so closely together, he could feel her surprised moan vibrate against him.  He had barely the opportunity to work his fingers before he felt her thighs on either side of him flexing to slide her up and down on him with much more expertise than he trusted.

The hand gripping her hair tightened further still and pulled back, a force to it that he did not think he’d ever show the northern rose.  He hissed, “What is the meaning of this?”

She was frozen, a wounded pup caught in a trap.  For a moment she looked so much like Cat that his chest tightened, and then eased as rivers of tears flowed down her cheeks.  Cat would not have cried.  She would have lashed out, fought back.  Sansa was supposed to be of Ned Stark’s blood, a wolf snapping and clawing at anyone who dared to grab her so.  But still the young girl, not yet understanding her own strengths, she allowed herself to fall defenseless in his grasp.  Where was the woman who ventured into a brothel?  Where was the adventurous lady who accepted the indecent proposal offered by a lecherous lord?  Or the reckless intended who donned another man’s ring so brazenly in court?

She sobbed out, “I’m so sorry, Petyr.”  

There it was.  She had betrayed him.  Somehow.  He knew he should remove his fingers from her, push her from him, perhaps even offer a good strong strike across her flawless face.  It would all be so incredibly minor compared to the time he would spend shackled in a dungeon before he was unceremoniously beheaded.  Petyr knew he would not draw the crowd that Ned did.  And he knew that all of his friends, the ones that wouldn’t be found with a mockingbird sewn over their hearts, would remain unaffected, if not a little poorer.  They would not raise a hand in protest; just as dead men did not profit, dead men did not pay.  

This was a feeling he’d grown accustomed to, flirting dangerously with the prospect of death, knuckles deep in violation.  An eerie calm washed over him as he pushed his fingers in further and asked, “What are you sorry for?”  He would hear her confession, before he was taken.  

Her eyes widened at the feel of him pressing harder and she stammered, “F-f-for ruuuin-ning ev-ev-ry-thing.”  At her admission, he released his grip on her hair and finally allowed a slow retreat from between her legs as he listened to her continue.  “I know you were just doing me a kindness, being a true friend.  This was just a service.  And I ruined it.”  She gulped back sobs.

Petyr glanced around the room again, wondering how she got this by him.  Tyrion was the smartest Lannister offspring, but Petyr’s connections were greater than the dwarf’s.  She continued to sob in the background of his working mind, thinking of all the people he’d seen her with: Tyrion, Margaery, her foreign whore-maiden.  Who was involved in this deception?  So consumed by his puzzlework, he had almost not heard her say, “It’s wrong of me to take advantage of you.”  

At that, his thoughts came to a screeching halt.  He slowly turned to face her, tilting his head in curiosity, “Take advantage of me?”  

She sniffled, “I know you’re only meeting with me out of the kindness of your heart.”  She looked down at her delicate hands balling up the thin material of her shift as she continued, “And I find, I’ve--”  Her voice broke off.  

“ _Yes_?”  Irritation was taking over as she was not yet admitting to her betrayal, merely stating back to him the rouse he’d been using to gain access to her over the past five days.

“I’ve--”  She sighed deeply, trying to get more air before her voice grew small, “Grown _accustomed_ to it.”  Her eyes flashed up nervously, “To _you_.”

As he played her words back in his head, she pushed forward, burrowing her face into his neck and wrapping her arms around him.  The sexuality gone from her gesture, though still permeating the meaning of her words.  This was no betrayal.  There was no one waiting in the shadows to seize him.  This was simply a young girl confessing her crush, escalating it past her private writing.  It was little wonder that she was not herself, bolstering all of her courage to advance upon him hours before she was consigned to the imp.  

Petyr felt all the muscles in his body relax in relief as he stroked her back to soothe her own tense muscles.  His original plan had been to convince her that the only way to fully prepare her body would be to take in the male member for a short while.  He would come up with any number of reasons as to why it would not be considered sex, how it would not be taking her maidenhead.  Though this was even better.  He told himself to maintain his upper hand as he whispered into the top of her head.  “Do you not think that I am much too old for you?  You had admitted to a preference for Loras Tyrell, at one time.”  

Sansa’s grip tightened on him, scooting her hot core against the vee of his pelvis.  She shook her head slightly as her lips tickled his neck, “At night, in my dreams, it is not Loras Tyrell that I see.”  One of her hands traveled up to his cheek as she added, “But instead a pair of grey-green eyes.”  

The blood rushed to his cock as he verified that she dreamt of him.  He had a choice: he could claim love as well and take her gently as a lover would, laying her back to worship her body.  Or, he could push her limits further, and risk an impassioned response either welcoming him between her legs or ejecting him from her chamber.  Considering her confession, the odds appeared in his favor, and Petyr did enjoy a gamble.  He reminded her of the forbidden nature of their coupling, “Sansa, it is not allowed.”  

Her eyes brightened in optimism, as she realized he did not deny mutual feelings for her.  He also did not express any, but the hopeful girl disregarded that little fact.  She pressed a kiss to his throat as she reasoned, “None of this is.”  

He held her to him, running his palms over her long ribbons of hair, as he offered her more mild resistance.  “No one knows more than I.”  Then he offered the slightest of possibilities that he may return her feelings as he said, “You can not fathom what I would risk for you.”  

Sansa kissed his jaw, grinding against the laces of his breeches.  “Lets risk it together, Petyr.”  

Well, wasn’t this was a shocking turn of events?  Not only did she not require any persuading, but she was in fact, _pursuing him_.  He let himself feel her pouty lips peck at his neck and jaw in little waves, reminiscent of the forbidden water he submersed himself in, in his youth.  Everything always felt better when it was wrong.  He let one hand drift back down to her ass, following the curve of it as her palm traveled inside his shirt and she kissed her way up his neck.  

Her hot breath hover over his ear before she plead, “I can’t lose my maidenhead to him.”  Petyr turned to face her, staring back at him with puffy eyes and swollen lips.  “Please, Petyr.  I don’t want him to be the first man inside of me.”  

All the muscles in his body flexed, each nerve ending fired, and every ounce of blood rushed.  As he realized that not only was she consenting, but she desired this, she _begged_ for it, he felt the success sing through his body, exulted.  She blinked back at him, trying to figure his thoughts.  Good luck, sweetling.  Not even the most cunning could ever figure out that maze.  Deciding to claim his victory before it was lost, Petyr kissed her.  

It grew ravenous as she reached for the laces on his breeches, instantly seeking his cock.  Once she found it, she wrapped her dainty fingers around it and began the massage she’d learned a couple of days prior.  Too confined by clothing, Petyr pulled from her lips and ripped his shirt off completely, for the first time exposing his scar in its entirety.  Sansa’s eyes grew wide as she scanned the length of it, and brought her free hand to his pec to brace herself as his own hands wandered back between her legs, sinking into the damp lips below.  

Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut as she began rocking into his touch.  Petyr grinned at how quickly she forgot the ugly stretch of flesh that ran down the middle of him just as surely as the Kingsroad did Westeros.  He could often make people forget things with a flick of his fingers.  His eyes found the dark orbs hiding behind the transparent material of her gown and decided to finally see her in her entirety.  He was about to remove the material, but decided it best that she do it.  “Take off your shift.”

Her eyes opened at that and he could see her realizing a new level of their intimacy: complete exposure.  Slowly she nodded her head, agreeing to obey the command.  Her hips continued to roll against his fingers, boasting their ache to take him inside, as she bunched up the fabric and lifted it over her head.  

Petyr had seen many young women naked on display for him, often times trying desperately to entice him with a particular feature.  To pick any one attribute of Sansa’s to prize above the others would be to choose between having either water to drink or air to breathe.  Beneath her pert breasts, lay a belly flattened by an understanding for moderation, though soft from her lack of exertions.  As he held her wet womanhood, he allowed the fingertips of his other hand to trace the planes of her midriff, goosebumps forming at the tickle.  A shallow dimple formed in her cheek and she offered apology, “I’m sorry.”  

There was the shy maiden he’d encountered previously.  He had wondered where she had gotten to and was pleased to see that this side of Sansa had not gone completely.  Unwilling to recognize her apology, he ignored it, seizing one nipple in his mouth.  She sighed into the touch and rocked hard into him.  He rewarded her by allowing his fingers entry to her depths.  

One hand braced herself on his shoulder while the other held him to her breast as she slid on his fingers, groaning his name like the needy thing he’d made her.  Deviating from the plan, his mind began to consider her wedding.  In just a short time she would be given to Tyrion and remain his until either one of them died.  Petyr’s brows furrowed as he swiped his tongue in circles and pumped his fingers inside of her, wondering why the reality of a wedding set in stone was even a consideration at this stage in the game.  There was no changing things and besides, once he ruined her, she would no longer serve a purpose to him.  Not one that would require him to care who bedded her, anyway.  He sucked harder, picturing her sensitive teets rubbing inside her wedding gown, reminding her of his lips hours before.  

She gasped at the pressure, and the tinge of pain it brought her, digging her fingers into Petyr’s shoulder.  He wondered if he would feel the scabbed over nail imprints she left on him scraping against his clothing as he watched her don the Lannister gold and red cloak.  He emitted a growl as he released her breast and pushed her forward to fall on her back.  

Her hair fanned out behind her upon impact and she smiled up at him as he readjusted to bring his face to her womanhood.  He kicked his boots off behind him and left his pants half off, satisfied that his cock was free to rub into the mattress as he tasted her intoxicating fruit and listened to the mewls and moans she couldn't help but utter under his careful ministration.  He did not take too long hovering above her sex, sniffing in the wet auburn curls that offered women a false modesty, before he let his tongue lap up her nectar.  

Gods, wasn’t she a delicacy?  So delicious and ample.  His fingers spread inside her, preparing her to take him in.  The past few days had been preparation, which was well beyond what most women got, but still, he wanted her to be ready.  A whimpering woman wailing in pain beneath a man could soften a cock as quickly as a baby’s cry.  And Petyr would have none of either, dealing only in hard cocks and hungry cunnis.  His and hers, specifically.  

Her fingers thread in his hair, urging him harder against the bundle of nerves she was ruled by.  He smiled into her, rubbing his face into the slick skin, knowing his goatee offered a different texture for her body to experience.  Sansa started to stiffen, her muscles flexing as her heart raced after the promise of euphoria.  When he felt her constrict around his fingers, much like she had the day before, he wrapped his arm around one of her thighs, clamping down to keep her in place.  To ride through her orgasm with her, Petyr rutted into the mattress as he increased the force by which he sucked her pearl.  His eyes widened, a small gasp of his own sounding, as his mouth filled with a salty wash.  Unwilling to release her, Petyr fought to gulp it back quickly.  

She covered her own mouth, stifling her moans of pleasure as Petyr swallowed the last of her.  He smiled to himself at this new bit of knowledge: Sansa Stark could reach her peak as men did.  Petyr knew of women capable of this, and purchased many for his brothels.  They were a commodity and therefore worth a raised rate.  He doubted a highborn lady would agree.

Raising himself to sit back on his haunches, Petyr surveyed her.  She appeared no more affected than she had the day before.  Some women were prone to embarrassment over such a thing, used to either not orgasming at all, or doing so weakly at the feel of selfish pricks.  Many women never reached their full potential, too proper to gratify themselves and too unlucky in their arranged marriages.  With how Petyr drank her down, there was no evidence to show her unique ability.  The girl was still so fresh and new as to not know what her body had just done, and why it was so much more special than any other time she came undone.  

Petyr took himself in hand, eyeing her sodden sex, and massaging the hardened shaft in his grip as he wondered when she would discover this about herself.   Who she’d be with.  “I love you.”  Her words snapped him out of his thoughts and he peered up at her.  

Sansa smiled at him, naive in her profession of love.  Petyr returned her smile, choosing not to tell her that this was not love.  Not as how she wanted.  He rubbed the head of his cock against her slick opening, applying the slightest of pressure, an unspoken request for permission.  He thought about telling her that if she was nervous, they needn’t go through with it, but he would not allow her that escape.  Looking down at himself, lined up perfectly, pressing against the gates to bliss, he could not and would not stop.  This was his prize to claim and he would not be cheated out of it by chivalry, especially since gallantry was not garb he dressed in.  

Her chest rose and fell rapidly as her anxiousness affected her.  Petyr cooed down to her as he pressed harder, “You’re gorgeous, Sansa.”  The head of his cock, pushed past the resistance of her entrance.  She did not hiss or wince, merely stared straight ahead at him, as if paralyzed in shock.  Petyr brought both of his hands down to rest on her hips to guide himself more wholly into her.  Sansa’s hands gripped the mattress on either side of her, her knuckles going white as he pushed deeper inside, watching her consume his cock.  When her damp lips met his pelvis, taking him to his base, Petyr finally breathed.  She was the tightest fit he’d ever had, even with all the attention he’d paid to stretching and preparing her.  His eyes closed from the intense stimulation her inexperienced quim gave.  Having never been invaded before, it fought the foreign body, reflexively clenching around him upon entry.  

It was enough to inspire an early finish in a man of lesser experience.  Petyr lowered himself to lay atop her, allowing his chest to press against hers as he filled her completely.  A gentleman would have remained still to allow her time to adjust, and while Petyr recognized that his hesitation allowed her that chance, he stalled for purely selfish reasons.  Her tight cunt had definitely exceeded his expectations, so stretched a fit, that he felt the rhythm of her heart pumping blood around the part of him she held so snug.  

Her eyes searched his for the love she felt a requirement.  What did Petyr know of matters of the heart?  Those days were long past, and that life giving organ had moved on, anyway.  His heart now lay between his legs.  At least, that’s where he felt it ache for her, where it beat its pulse.  What need did he have for true love, when they shared the mutual throb of a connection so intimate in its obscenity.  His elbows rest on either side of her shoulders, a palm running over her forehead and the top of her hair, as he slowly retracted back.  Though he knew she understood the mechanics of sex, she still looked surprised and disappointed as his cock retreated.  Holding her gaze and digging his elbows into the mattress, Petyr drove forward and exhaled over her lips, “ _My love_.”

He would give her what she needed so he could keep taking as he wished.  Dimples appeared on her cheeks as she broke out into a grin, lifting her knees higher and resting her calves on his lower back.  Petyr smiled into her neck as he continued to pump into her, not settling for any less than all of himself submerged in all of her.  She ran her hands down his back, smiling as he  drove into her, not an ounce of pain to be detected.  

Sweat formed between them, as his chest slid on hers, and his hips rubbed the insides of her thighs.  He was sucking on her earlobe when he had an idea.  Petyr sat up, gripping her hips and thighs to pull her closer to him, and himself deeper in her.  Still pumping at a steady rate, Petyr reached over, gently detaching one of her hands from the the bedding to place it over her damp curls.  He instructed, “Touch yourself.”  

When he didn’t see her hand moving, he added, “As I have touched you.”  He would have her hands sullied by their acts as well.  Later, when remembering back on the moment that she lost her maidenhead, it would not be that she laid there passively while Littlefinger forced himself on her.  She would remember the frantic way she rubbed at her pearl and told him she loved him as he thrust into her over and over again.

Even though she had already cum so profoundly already, it was not long, feeling him fill her insides while she massaged her outside, before she was spasming around him.  Despite the sublime friction her exceedingly tight cunt provided, Petyr managed to wait until she was losing her reason before he increased his pace and ferocity.  His taut sack smacked hard against the soft padding of her ass as he drove their bodies further and harder towards his own finish.  Every ounce of focus he had, was on the head of his cock, knowing that if caught on just the right bump or divot, it would explode.  His leg cramped suddenly and when he reached to grab it, he hit perfectly sending ropes of seed flying out of him and slapping against her insides.  

His eyes had closed with his concentration and he had almost forgotten to open them and look down at the girl forever-changed below.  Her smile was uncertain as she looked to him for direction and assurance.  She didn’t realize.  She didn’t understand what he’d just done inside of her.  She couldn’t have, or else she’d be concerned about the seed that filled her.  Petyr’s mind flashed to his fantasy of her walking down the aisle in her best attire, with his seed streaming down her legs as she did.  He concealed his grin, it was a pleasant thought.  He considered himself sitting in a pew, already reminiscing over the snug fit of her.  Her cunt was not one that satisfied after only one use.  All five of his senses were aroused by the girl, and having finally had all of her, he decided he would have her again.  And again, if he so wished.  

Petyr formed a look of mock panic, wrenching himself from her in great haste, before vigorously wiping her pussy with the bed linen.  He was happy to see no blood in the bed, both to conceal her loss of virginity as well as to praise to his careful attention in properly readying her.  Sansa’s skin made more tender from their recent activities, was swollen and red, and he knew the abrasive material was only irritating it further.  It was a pain she would recover from and he had use for the theatrics.  

She winced as she looked up, “What’s wrong, Petyr?”

His face grew grave, “I spilled seed inside you.”  At her wide-eyed stare back at him, he knew she recognized the severity of the situation.  “I tried to remove myself to spill in another place--”

“Why didn’t you?” A tremor found her voice as panic set in.  

Petyr ran his hand down her thigh, and offered a sad expression as he said, “At my age, I have slept with many women over the years, and none of them have felt as good as you do.”  He glanced up at the embarrassed smile that grew on her, and then looked away offering a boyish one to match, “I’m afraid, it came upon me fast and I could not control myself.”  

A dirty lie disguised as a compliment paraded through an atmosphere of false danger was all it took for Lady Sansa, true blue northern rose to sit up and pull him to her chest.  She ran her fingers through his hair as if to comfort him.  Him who was the liar, the lech, the predator.  He smiled into her, fighting the urge to lick the nipple inches below his lips.  Finding the strong voice within, she spoke into his hair, “If I am with child, I will say it’s Tyrion’s.”  

It was the first time she said the man’s name, referring to him for once as a person instead of a monster capable only of bringing her more misery.  It made sense that on her wedding day she would have to start considering the man instead of the monster, especially if she was to bear him heirs.  Petyr knew that her suggestion was the next logical thought and had planned for it, willing to use Tyrion’s disfigurement to his own benefit.  He looked up from her breast in earnest, “You can not.”  He straightened himself and stared into her eyes as he said, “Seed from _the imp_ will disfigure the child.”

Sansa smiled and shook her head, “No, Petyr, it’s alright.  I’ve been assured that just because he is...as he is, does not mean that any child he sires will be as well.”  Petyr continued his forlorn facade as she cupped his cheek and insisted, “I’ve spoken to the maesters and they have shared many cases of people like him fathering normal children.”  

Petyr turned in her hand, to kiss her palm.  He admired her research, not the brainless beauty she would have most at court believe.  If her future was to being an imp’s wife, she would learn exactly how that would affect her both in the present and future.  He considered fucking her again, for that admission alone, but remembered that it was time to deliver his finishing blow.  “I too, know that he is capable of creating normal children.  However, when a woman is with child from one man, and allows another into her bed, it deforms the child growing within.”  

“That can’t be.”  Sansa stared back at him in disbelief.  And then she reasoned, “You hear stories of women passing their bastards off as their husbands all the time.”  

How cheeky of her.  Her own sense of rationality was putting up quite the resistance for him, and it was only arousing him more.  He bit back a smile as he countered, “How do you think it is that Tyrion ended up as he did?  They say that the Mad King carried a flame for Lady Joanna.  She was already with Tywin’s child when the king took what he wanted.”  

Her breath caught as he watched her consider her future husband’s dwarfism, serving as undeniable proof of the lie he told her.  Petyr was winning and they both knew it as she frowned, “He will be my _husband_.  I can not refuse him.”  

Now it was he that pulled her into his embrace, if for no other reason than to hide the triumphant smile that spread across his face.  He stroked a hand through her hair and kissed her forehead as he agreed, “No, you can not.  You could, however, dissuade him.”

She all but sobbed into his chest, “ _How_?”

Petyr strummed through the long locks of her hair as he offered her vague instruction, “A good lady wife knows how to manage her husband.  Haven’t you been raised to be a good lady wife?  Surely, you’ve observed how the ladies of court run their households.”  He pecked another kiss at the top of her head, “And the whole court knows of your tendency towards migraines now.”  

Sansa smiled and sounded shy as she answered, “That was only for...our _visits._ ”  

“They don’t have to stop, Sansa.  Keep your husband at bay, and allow me in.  I’m the only man in Westeros that can’t harm the baby.  The only man who can give you the attention you deserve, _need_ .”  Petyr lifted her face to look her in the eye as he added, “You said you _love_ me.”

She gulped, nodding her head in his grasp before closing her eyes and breathing, “ _Yes._ ”          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! Thank you everyone for reading my punishment prompt made public. If I have done my job right, I have taken something beautiful and sensitive like loss of virginity and turned it into something one wants to wash their hands after reading ;-) Oh the mind-fucking. In any case, thank you again! And thank GreedIsGreen for punishing me this way and reading over the chapters before release to avoid grammatical nightmares seeing the light of day. Just a reminder for anyone looking at the chapter count, Chapter 7 is not really another chapter, but instead an epilogue and will be titled so for anyone that sticks around to read that when it is completed. If you are not the epilogue type, you can feel safe in departing from this story now as we have reached our destination...the loss of a maidenhead, lol!


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 Month Later

_ Watch out for her.  ~   I always do.  ~  Watch out for her with him. _

I never asked to be tied to a lady, only that I remain by my lion’s side.  In my life, kindness hasn’t been a requirement, and I used to forget what it felt like.  That was before I met Tyrion, both of us standing in a battle tent, me clutching a fur to cover what he hadn’t yet bought.  He struck a bargain with me that he has more than made good on.  He reminds me what kindness is each time he calls me his lady, ignoring that I can never be.  He smuggled me into the city with him and hid me away for as long as he could before he had me pose as Lady Sansa’s handmaiden.  When you serve no purpose but to remain kept in a room, it feels good to be given something to do, even if it was just to brush a spoiled highborn’s hair and clean her chamber pot.  The idea was not brilliant, pretending to be a servant seen so easily, but it could have been worse.  And what did I care, if it meant that I could be with him?

I didn’t think I’d grow attached to the girl.  She was just a cover, a means to an end.  But, the more time I spent with her, I realized how little she knew of the world, even though she’s worth so much in it.  She’s a lost cub playing with much bigger, fiercer beasts, all fighting to be alpha.  We were sitting on the docks when he appeared, the man with the heavy money purse and silver streaks above his ears.  Like any predator, he spotted her and separated her from the pack, speaking with her away from me.  It was then that I caught a warning from his own whore.  What could have been more telling?  Lord Baelish is not a man to toy with.  Most people fear the bigger, stronger men.  Though, in my experience, it’s the smaller ones who can cause the most damage.  My lion doesn’t fear him.  But men don’t see the threat of other men like women do.  Like a whore does.  It’s wise to listen when one whore warns another. 

I never would have allowed him to have her.  Never.  Until she was betrothed to my lion.

_ Men only want one thing from a pretty girl. _

It is the same of all men, and yet up here with all the noble lords and ladies, they pretend it is another.  Heirs.  They say it is all about blood and babies, but I’ve had enough noblemen between my knees to know they want nothing of my blood or bastards.  When I learned that she was to marry my lion, I was torn between wanting to protect the sweet summer child without a friend in the castle, and wanting to claw at the face deemed “a great beauty.”  Everything changed.  She was no longer just someone I cared for, but now also my opposition.

Too concerned with duty and playing by the rules of the world he grew up in, Tyrion would not find a way to fix this.  If he would not, then I would.  I needed to think of how to keep her away from what was mine.  She has always been a scared child, why not frighten her?  I told her stories of how grotesque and monstrous imps were, making her loathe to be linked to one.  And then I told her of a preparation that Lord Baelish’s whore could give her, sending her into a brothel, something those pure eyes had never seen before.  I believed by sending her in there after the whore who issued the warning, she would learn some things that would horrify her virginal mind.  It was supposed to be the perfect plan; she would be safe with Lord Baelish’s girl looking out for her in sentimentality, and Sansa would learn to dread her wedding night.

_ Love is not the thing he wants. _

Anyone with eyes could see what Lord Baelish wanted from her.  He was better at hiding it than most, but his motives were clear regardless.  He would track her movements throughout a room, and the smile that he wore was somehow less crafted than when she wasn’t in view.  Sansa may be new to these things, but I have not been for a long time.  I knew then what it meant each time he touched her hair, offered to stroll with her the gardens, and when he claimed to be her “true friend.”  When she told me that they had met by the harbor alone to watch one of his boats sail away, any doubt I may have had about his intentions faded fast.  The next time I saw him, I looked at his hands.  It was some comfort that he kept his nails clipped.  No matter how untrustworthy he may be, there is a kindness in a man who keeps his nails short.  It shows consideration for the lady he finger-fucks. 

_ He didn’t ask you to do something for him? _

It was odd that she had a headache.  Sansa wasn’t any more prone to them than she was lying, which is how I knew instantly that she wanted to be alone in her room for some reason.  I shouldn’t have cared.  At the time she was becoming more opposition than lady to serve.  I am Shae and I serve no one.  That is what I reminded myself when I left her on that first day, and went to my lion, still set on following through with his father’s command.  I said many awful things to him, all stabs to see what drew the most blood.  A wounded lion would lash out, but he would not mate.  It was then that I remembered his weakness for willingness and women.  It was where the kindness I’d grown accustomed to came from.  Though his sense of duty was strong, he would not take a woman unwilling.  It helped that he had no preference for young girls, and Sansa had only just started to bleed.  When I returned to her chamber, and saw the ring on her finger, I knew she had not been alone.  Women did not just retire to their chambers alone without a ring, and wake up a couple of hours later with one.   

_ If he does ask you for anything.  Or tries anything.  Or touches you.  I want you to tell me. _

I had been brushing her hair, inquiring about her beautiful ring and her change in mood, when she told me.  As much as she would, anyway.  I figured out the rest.  She told me that she had found someone to prepare her.  Looking at the sparkling sapphire, I knew it was him.  When she neglected to say that it was Lord Baelish’s whore, I knew even more.  But to be sure I asked, “Is he gentle?”  When she didn’t correct me to tell me that it was a she, I had all the proof I needed.  

My heart sank.  A whore’s warning told me to stop her, tell her not to see him again, keep him as far away as possible.  Jealousy made me quiet the stern protest that had been forming on the tip of my tongue.  I looked back at her smiling face in the vanity mirror and glanced down at the ring accenting her hand.  I had seen the way he gazed at her, and now decorated her.  Perhaps, he would show her a kindness like my lion did me?  I knew I was lying to myself, but I couldn’t bear to have my lion inside of her.  

_ Am I invited to your wedding? _

It truly was her writing.  I won’t take credit for that.  I did, however, shuffle it in with the rest of her letters, knowing that someone as slippery as Littlefinger would see.  Though he didn’t need any more encouragement, I offered him the perfect angle with which to work anyway.  As I pulled the parchment from beneath her bed, where it was hidden, I staIled for a moment.  What was I doing?  Serving this young girl up on a platter, as my mother had to me.  I was nine then, Sansa was at least fourteen.  It was different.  I told myself it was.  The captain of the fishing ship who tore past my maidenhead and tossed coin at the whoremonger who kept me after my mother sold me, did not care if I loved him.  Men don’t care if the virgin they ruin love them.  But Lord Baelish did.  As I gazed through the sheer curtain at her window, I saw him smile reading her private thoughts.  It was one of his real smiles.  No one was around to be influenced, it was purely for him, because of her.  

When I cleared her table I smelled something familiar from a mug she left; it was moon tea.  She didn’t know that.  I don’t know what she knew, but she didn’t know that.  It was another chance for me to relent, to stop things.  He meant to fuck her.  I knew he did, but tasting the moon tea that dripped from the empty mug confirmed it was happening.  I didn’t care that he would ruin her name for these people, these rich stuck up nobles who thought of heirs.  I cared that she was still so young to be playing a woman’s game.  It’s only been a month since the wedding, and yet it’s as if she’s always taken part in this sport.  I sneak up from time to time to watch, to make sure he’s still kind.  Judging from the way she licks the length of his scar before she seats herself on him, I can tell that though she may still look it, she’s not a child any longer.

_ She’s a beautiful girl.  You said so yourself. _

Greedy men, men to be warned about, don’t bother with moon tea.  They mind whether or not you grow them a bastard to forget about.  They take you, hurt you, and then leave you.  This man is different.  With her.  As dangerous as he is, he’s different with her.  I told myself that if he continued to care for her once he had her, as he had before, I knew he’d protect her too.  When the silly girl lost her ring, I found it for her.  I spent most of the morning on my hands and knees scouring her chamber to find where it had fallen and rolled to.  Once found, I rushed it to her, praying that it was not too late.  I couldn’t allow him to feel rejected and withdraw.  What would that mean for her?  What would that mean for my lion?  For me?

The wedding was difficult to watch.  The pain of seeing her stand beside my lion was only lessened by the fact that I had not only witnessed her lose her maidenhead to another, but also listened to her agree to keep herself chaste to anyone but Littlefinger.  He told her a story about babies being deformed if a mother takes two men to bed.  It was foolishness.  But she believed it, and I knew that it would only suit us all if she kept believing it.  I made myself frown as I agreed that it was true.  I asked why she would inquire as to such a thing, knowing exactly why.  She paled and said that she had heard it from Margaery and was curious.  As I was fitting her into her gown, she broke and begged me to help her put her groom off.

_ Is that what you will tell yourself when you fuck her? _

I shared his preference for more mature women.  Without further prompting, she turned from me and ransacked her room screaming for me to help her find the doll her father had given her before he passed.  It was in a chest under a stack of folded blankets.  She snatched it up quickly and set it on the top of her covers, at the center of her bed.  Proudly displaying her youth.  At her own request, I styled her hair in a fashion that most young girls wore.  When she faced my lion, her demonic monster, she let the rivers of tears flow.  Staring at the girl whose doll decorated their bed, who wore the double braid of a child, how could he do his duty then?  How could he on any night since?

As I watch Lord Baelish’s ass flex each time he rams into the sweet girl I’ve been charged with caring for, I tell myself that she could do worse.  For an older man, he’s attractive enough.  She looks happy, smiling even in positions he cannot see her face.  This is no show, not on her part.  It isn’t on his either.  He’s still giving her gifts and when I peer through her window from the balcony, I see how attentive he is to her pleasure.  Even loving men neglect a woman’s peak at times.  But he doesn’t.  At least not in any of the times that I’ve looked in.  And she should be grateful to have such a thoughtful partner.  I think she is.  He visits her often even though he could have finished with her long ago.  I do what I can to make her excuses, and to keep my lion in the dark.  It is on those days, that she smiles the brightest.

I do not regret my decision.  As selfish as my reasons have been, she wanted this too, or she wouldn’t have agreed to meet him each and every time then and now.  I do not know for certain if Littlefinger loves her, but I do know he cares for her.  As my lion tells me, this city is a dangerous place.  I know that the safest place for her to be is with a dangerous man, and away from mine.    

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I have done my job right, no one saw that coming! Thank you again everybody for reading. And thank you to expected_aberrance for reading through this chapter for me so that I could COMPLETELY SURPRISE GreedIsGreen! I have officially served my time with this punishment-prompt and I truly hope you enjoyed it Mistress Greed ;-)


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